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DUBLINERS

THE HOUSE OF SOULS

By Arthur Machen. 6/-

"//e stands cdmost alone in his method
and art . . . as gruesome and moi-e spirit-
ualthan Poe."— Pall Mall Gazette.

THE HILL OF DREAMS

By Arthur Machen. 6/-

"vl hook that stands quite alone in Eng-
lish fiction." — The Outlook.

A COMMENTARY

By John Galsworthy. 3/6

" He describes the things he sees with con-
summate power-."— Daily Telegraph.

A TARPAULIN MUSTER

By John Masefield. 3/6

'• Here indeed is life passing under our
very f (/#*•."— Manchester Guardian.

Grant Richards Ltd.

DUBLINERS

BY

JAMES JOYCE

t

LONDON
GRANT RICHARDS LTD.

PUBLISHERS

PRINTED BY THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED

EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND

I914

CONTENTS

The Sisters

An Encounter

Araby

Eveline

After the Race

Two Gallants

The Boarding House

A Little Cloud

Counterparts

Clay

A Painful Case

Ivy Day in the Committee

A Mother .

Grace

The Dead .

Room

PAOB

9
21
33
42
49
58
73

84
104
120
130
144
166
184
216

THE SISTERS

There was no hope for him this time : it was the
third stroke. Night after night I had passed the
house (it was vacation time) and studied the lighted
square of window : and night after night I had
found it Ughted in the same way, faintly and evenly.
If he was dead, I thought, I would see the reflection
of candles on the darkened blind for I knew that two
candles must be set at the head of a corpse. He had
often said to me : ' I am not long for this world,' and
I had thought his words idle. Now I knew they were
true. Every night as I gazed up at the window I
said softly to myself the word paralysis. It had
always sounded strangely in my ears, like the word
gnomon in the Euclid and the word simony in the
Catechism. But now it sounded to me like the name
of some maleficent and sinful being. It filled me
with fear, and yet I longed to be nearer to it and to
look upon its deadly work.

Old Cotter was sitting at the fire, smoking, when
I came downstairs to supper. While my aunt was
ladling out my stirabout he said, as if returning to
some former remark of his :

' No, I wouldn't say he was exactly . . . but there
was something queer . . . there was something
uncanny about him. I'll tell you my opinion. . . .'
9

10 DUBLINERS

He began to puff at his pipe, no doubt arranging his
opinion in his mind. Tiresome old fool I When we
knew him first he used to be rather interesting,
talking of faints and worms ; but I soon grew tired
of him and his endless stories about the distillery.

' I have my own theory about it,' he said. ' I
think it was one of those . . . peculiar cases. . . .
But it's hard to say. . . .'

He began to puff again at his pipe without giving
us his theory. My uncle saw me staring and said to
me :

' Well, so your old friend is gone, you'll be sorry
to hear.'

'Who?' said I.

' Father Flynn.'

' Is he dead ? '

' Mr Cotter here has just told us. He was passing
by the house.'

I knew that I was under observation so I continued
eating as if the news had not interested me. My
uncle explained to old Cotter.

'The youngster and he were great friends. The
old chap taught him a great deal, mind you ; and
they say he had a great wish for him.'

' God have mercy on his soul,' said my aunt
piously.

Old Cotter looked at me for a while. I felt that
his little beady black eyes were examining me but
I would not satisfy him by looking up from my plate.
He returned to his pipe and finally spat rudely into
the grate.

THE SISTERS 11

' I wouldn't like children of mine,' he said, ' to
have too much to say to a man like that.'

' How do you mean, Mr Cotter ? ' asked my aunt.

' What I mean is,' said old Cotter, ' it's bad for
children. My idea is : let a young lad run about
and play with young lads of his own age and not
be . . . Am I right, Jack ? '

' That's my principle, too,' said my uncle. ' Let
him learn to box his corner. That's what I'm
always saying to that Rosicrucian there : take
exercise. Why, when I was a nipper every morning
of my life I had a cold bath, winter and summer.
And that's what stands to me now. Education is
all very fine and large. . . . Mr Cotter might take a
pick of that leg of mutton,' he added to my aunt.

' No, no, not for me,' said old Cotter.

My aunt brought the dish from the safe and put it
on the table.

' But why do you think it's not good for children,
Mr Cotter ? ' she asked.

' It's bad for children,' said old Cotter, ' because
their minds are so impressionable. When children
see things like that, you know, it has an effect. . . .'

I crammed my mouth with stirabout for fear I
might give utterance to my anger. Tiresome old
red-nosed imbecile ! '

It was late when I fell asleep. Though I was
angry with old Cotter for alluding to me as a child
I puzzled my head to extract meaning from his
unfinished sentences. In the dark of my room
I imagined that I saw again the heavy grey face

12 DUBLINERS

of the paralytic. I drew the blankets over my
head and tried to think of Christmas. But the
grey face still followed me. It murmured ; and
I understood that it desired to confess something.
I felt my soul receding into some pleasant and
vicious region ; and there again I found it waiting
for me. It began to confess to me in a murmuring
voice and I wondered why it smiled continually
and why the lips were so moist with spittle. But
then I remembered that it had died of paralysis and
I felt that I too was smiling feebly as if to absolve
the simoniac of his sin.

The next morning after breakfast I went down
to look at the little house in Great Britain Street.
It was an unassuming shop, registered under the
vague name of Drapery. The drapery consisted
mainly of children's bootees and umbrellas ; and on
ordinary days a notice used to hang in the window,
saying : Umbrellas Re-covered. No notice was
visible now for the shutters were up. A crape
bouquet was tied to the door-knocker with ribbon.
Two poor women and a telegram boy were reading
the card pinned on the crape. I also approached
and read :

July 1st, 1895

The Rev. James Flynn (formerly of S. Catherine's

Church, Meath Street), aged sixty-five years.

R. I. P.

The reading of the card persuaded me that he
was dead and I was disturbed to find myself at

THE SISTERS 13

check. Had he not been dead I would have gone
into the little dark room behind the shop to find
him sitting in his arm-chair by the fire, nearly
smothered in his great-coat. Perhaps my aunt
would have given me a packet of High Toast for
him and tliis present would have roused him from
his stupefied doze. It was always I who emptied
the packet into his black snuff-box for his hands
trembled too much to allow him to do this without
spilling half the snuff about the floor. Even as
he raised his large trembling hand to his nose little
clouds of smoke dribbled through his fingers over the
front of his coat. It may have been these constant
showers of snuff which gave his ancient priestly
garments their green faded look for the red hand-
kerchief, blackened, as it always was, with the snuff-
stains of a week, with which he tried to brush away
the fallen grains, was quite inefficacious.

I wished to go in and look at him but I had not
the courage to knock. I walked away slowly along
the sunny side of the street, reading all the theatrical
advertisements in the shop-windows as 1 went.
I found it strange that neither I nor the day seemed
in a mourning mood and I felt even annoyed at
discovering in myself a sensation of freedom as if
I had been freed from something by his death. I
wondered at this for, as my uncle had said the night
before, he had taught me a great deal. He had
studied in the Irish college in Rome and he had taught
me to pronounce Latin properly. He had told me
stories about the catacombs and about Napoleon

14 DUBLINERS

Bonaparte, and he had explained to me the meaning
of the different ceremonies of the IMass and of the
different vestments worn by the priest. Sometimes
he had amused himself by putting difficult questions
to me, asking me what one should do in certain
circumstances or whether such and such sins were
mortal or venial or only imperfections. His questions
showed me how complex and mysterious were certain
institutions of the Church which I had always
regarded as the simplest acts. -The duties of the
priest towards the Eucharist and towards the secrecy
of the confessional seemed so grave to me that I
wondered how anybody had ever found in himself
the courage to undertake them ; and I was not
surprised when he told me that the fathers of the
Church had written books as thick as the Post Office
Directory and as closely printed as the law notices
in the newspaper, elucidating all these intricate
questions. Often when I thought of this I could
make no answer or only a very foolish and halting
one lipon which he used to smile and nod his head
twice or thrice. Sometimes he used to put me
through the responses of the Mass which he had
made me learn by heart ; and, as I pattered, he used
to smile pensively and nod his head, now and then
pushing huge pinches of snuff up each nostril alter-
nately. When he smiled he used to uncover his big
discoloured teeth and let his tongue lie upon his lower
lip — ^a habit which had made me feel uneasy in the
beginning of our acquaintance before I knew him
well.

THE SISTERS 15

As I walked along in the sun I remembered old
Cotter's words and tried to remember what had
happened afterwards in the dream. I remembered
that I had noticed long velvet curtains and a
swinging lamp of antique fashion. I felt that I
had been very, far away, in some land w^here the
customs were strange — ^in Persia, I thought. . . .
But I could not remember the end of the dream.

In the evening my aunt took me with her to visit
the house of mourning. It was after sunset ; but
the window-panes of the houses that looked to the
wxst reflected the tawny gold of a great bank of
clouds. Nannie received us in the hall ; and, as it
would have been unseemly to have shouted at her,
my aunt shook hands with her for all. The old
woman pointed upwards interrogatively and, on my
aunt's nodding, proceeded to toil up the narrow stair-
case before us, her bowed head being scarcely above
the level of the banister-rail. At the first landing
she stopped and beckoned us forward encouragingly
towards the open door of the dead-room. My aunt
went in and the old woman, seeing that I hesitated
to enter, began to beckon to me again repeatedly
with her hand.

I went in on tiptoe. The room through the lace
end of the blind was suffused with dusky golden
light amid which the candles looked like pale thin
flames. He had been coffined. Nannie gave the lead
and we three knelt down at the foot of the bed. I
pretended to pray but I could not gather my thoughts
because the old woman's mutterings distracted me.

16 DUBLINERS

I noticed how clumsily her skirt was hooked at the
back and how the heels of her cloth boots were
trodden down all to one side. The fancy came to
me that the old priest was smiling as he lay there in
his coffin.

But no. When we rose and went up to the head
of the bed I saw that he was not smiling. There he
lay, solemn and copious, vested as for the altar,
his large hands loosely retaining a chalice. His
face was very truculent, grey and massive, with
black cavernous nostrils and circled by a scanty
white fur. There was a heavy odour in the room
— ^the flowers.

We crossed ourselves and came away. In the
little room dowTistairs we found Eliza seated in his
arm-chair in state. I groped my way towards my
usual chair in the corner while Nannie went to the
sideboard and brought out a decanter of sherry and
some wine-glasses. She set these on the table and
invited us to take a little glass of wine. Then, at
her sister's bidding, she filled out the sherry into the
glasses and passed them to us. She pressed me to
take some cream crackers also but I declined because
I thought I would make too much noise eating them.
She seemed to be somewhat disappointed at my
refusal and went over quietly to the sofa where she
sat down behind her sister. No one spoke : we all
gazed at the empty fireplace.

My aunt waited until Eliza sighed and then said :

' Ah, well, he's gone to a better world.'

Eliza sighed again and bowed her head in assent.

THE SISTERS 17

My aunt fingered the stem of her wine-glass before
sipping a Httle.

* Did he . . . peacefully ? ' she asked.

' Oh, quite peacefully, ma'am,' said Eliza. ' You
couldn't tell when the breath went out of him. He
had a beautiful death, God be praised.'

' And everything . . . ? '

' Father O'Rourke was in with him a Tuesday
and anointed him and prepared him and all.'

' He knew then ? '

' He was quite resigned.'

' He looks quite resigned,' said my aunt.

' That's what the woman we had in to wash him
said. She said he just looked as if he was asleep,
he looked that peaceful and resigned. No one would
think he'd make such a beautiful corpse.'

' Yes, indeed,' said my aunt.

She sipped a little more from her glass and said :

' Wei], Miss Flynn, at any rate it must be a great
comfort for you to know that you did all you could
for him. You were both very kind to him, I must
say.'

Eliza smoothed her dress over her knees.

' Ah, poor James ! ' she said. ' God knows we
done all we could, as poor as we are — we wouldn't
see him want anything while he was in it.'

Nannie had leaned her head against the sofa-
pillow and seemed about to fall asleep.

' There's poor Nannie,' said EHza, looking at her,
' she's wore out. All the work we had, she and me,
getting in the woman to wash him and then laying

B

18 DUBLINERS

him out and then the coffin and then arrangmg
about the Mass in the chapel. Only for Father
O'Rourke I don't know what we'd have done at all.
It was him brought us all them flowers and them
two candlesticks out of the chapel and wrote out the
notice for the Freeman's General and took charge
of all the papers for the cemetery and poor James's
insurance.'

' Wasn't that good of him ? ' said my aunt.

Eliza closed her eyes and shook her head slowly.

' Ah, there's no friends like the old friends,' she
said, ' when all is said and done, no friends that a
body can trust.'

' Indeed, that's true,' said my aunt. ' And I'm
sure now that he's gone to his eternal reward
he won't forget you and all your kindness to
him.'

' Ah, poor James ! ' said EUza. ' He was no
great trouble to us. You wouldn't hear him in the
house any more than now. Still, I know he's gone
and all to that. . . .'

* It's when it's all over that you'll miss him,'
said my aunt.

' I know that,' said Eliza. ' I won't be bringing
him in his cup of beef -tea any more, nor you, ma'am,
sending him his snuff. Ah, poor James ! '

She stopped, as if she were communing with the
past and then said shrewdly :

' Mind you, I noticed there was something queer
coming over him latterly. Whenever I'd bring in
his soup to him there I'd find him with his breviary

THE SISTERS 19

fallen to the floor, lying back in the chair and his
mouth open.

She laid a finger against her nose and frowned :
then she continued :

' But still and all he kept on saying that before
the summer was over he'd go out for a drive one fine
day just to see the old house again where we were all
born down in Irish town and take me and Nannie
with him. If we could only get one of them new-
fangled carriages that makes no noise that Father
O'Rourke told him about, them with the rheumatic
wheels, for the day cheap — he said, at Johnny Rush's
over the way there and drive out the three of us
together of a Sunday evening. He had his mind
set on that. . . . Poor James ! '

' The Lord have mercy on his soul ! ' said my aunt.

Eliza took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes
with it. Then she put it back again in her pocket
and gazed into the empty grate for some time without
speaking.

* He was too scrupulous always,' she said. ' The
duties of the priesthood was too much for him.
And then his life was, you might say, crossed.'

' Yes,' said my aunt. ' He was a disappointed
man. You could see that.'

A silence took possession of the little room and,
under cover of it, I approached the table and tasted
my sherry and then returned quietly to my chair
in the comer. Eliza seemed to have fa lien into a deep
revery. We waited respectfully for her to break the
silence : and after a long pause she said slowly :

20 DUBLINERS

' It was that chalice he broke. . . . That was the
beginning of it. Of course, they say it was all right,
that it contained nothing, I mean. But still. . . .
They say it was the boy's fault. But poor James
was so nervous, God be merciful to him ! '

' And was that it ? ' said my aunt. ' I heard
something. . . .'

Eliza nodded.

* That affected his mind,' she said. ' After that
he began to mope by himself, talking to no one and
wandering about by himself. So one night he was
wanted for to go on a call and they couldn't find him
anywhere. They looked high up and low down ;
and still they couldn't see a sight of him anywhere.
So then the clerk suggested to try the chapel. So
then they got the keys and opened the chapel and the
clerk and Father O'Rourke and another priest that
was there brought in a light for to look for him. . . .
And what do you think but there he was, sitting
up by himself in the dark in his confession-box,
wide-awake and laughing-like softly to himself ? '

She stopped suddenly as if to listen. I too
listened ; but theie was no sound in the house :
and I knew that the old priest was lying still in his
coffin as we had seen him, solemn and truculent in
death, an idle chalice on his breast.

Eliza resumed :

' Wide-awake and laughing-like to himself. . . .
So then, of course, when they saw that, that made
them think that there was something gone wrong
with him. . . .'

AN ENCOUNTER

It was Joe Dillon who introduced the Wild West
to us. He had a little library made up of old numbers
of The Union Jack, Pluck and The Halfpenny Marvel.
Every evening after school we met in his back garden
and arranged Indian battles. He and his fat young
brother Leo the idler held the loft of the stable while
we tried to carry it by storm ; or we fought a pitched
battle on the grass. But, however well we fought,
we never won siege or battle and all our bouts ended
with Joe Dillon's war dance of victory. His parents
went to eight-o'clock mass every morning in Gardiner
Street and the peaceful odour of Mrs Dillon was
prevalent in the hall of the house. But he played
too fiercely for us who were younger and more timid.
He looked like some kind of an Indian when he
capered round the garden, an old tea-cosy on his
head, beating a tin with his fist and yelling :

' Ya ! yaka, yaka, yaka ! '

Everyone was incredulous when it was reported
that he had a vocation for the priesthood. Never-
theless it was true.

A spirit of unruliness diffused itself among us
and, under its influence, differences of culture and
constitution were waived. We banded ourselves
together, some boldly, some in jest and some almost

21

22 DUBLINERS

in fear: and of the number of these latter, the reluctant
Indians who were afraid to seem studious or lacking
in robustness, I was one. The adventures related in
the literature of the Wild West were remote from my
nature but, at least, they opened doors of escape.
I liked better some American detective stories which
were traversed from time to time by unkempt fierce
and beautiful girls. Though there was nothing
wrong in these stories and though their intention
was sometimes literary they were circulated secretly
at school. One day when Father Butler was hearing
the four pages of Roman History clumsy Leo
Dillon was discovered with a copy of The Halfpenny
Marvel.

' This page or this page ? This page ? Now,
Dillon, up ! ''Hardly had the duy "... Go on ! What
day ? " Hardly had the day dawned "... Have you
studied it ? What have you there in your pocket ? '

Everyone's heart palpitated as Leo Dillon handed
up the paper and everyone assumed an innocent face.
Father Butler turned over the pages, frowning.

' What is this rubbish ? ' he said. ' The Apache
Chief ! Is this what you read instead of studying
your Roman History ? Let me not find any more
of this wretched stuff in this college. The man who
wrote it, I suppose, was some wretched fellow that
writes these things for a drink. I'm surprised at
boys like you, educated, reading such stuff. I could
understand it if you were . . . National School boys.
Now, Dillon, I advise you strongly, get at your work
or . . .'

AN ENCOUNTER 23

This rebuke during the sober hours of school paled
much of the glory of the Wild West for me and the
confused puffy face of Leo Dillon awakened one of
my consciences. But when the restraining influence
of the school was at a distance I began to hunger
again for wild sensations, for the escape which those
chronicles of disorder alone seemed to offer me.
The mimic warfare of the evening became at last
as wearisome to me as the routine of school in the
morning because I wanted real adventures to happen
to myself. But real adventures, I reflected, do not
happen to people who remain at home : they must
be sought abroad.

The summer holidays were near at hand when I
made up my mind to break out of the weariness of
school-life for one day at least. With Leo Dillon and
a boy named Mahony I planned a day's miching.
Each of us saved up sixpence. We were to meet at
ten in the morning on the Canal Bridge. Mahony 's
big sister was to write an excuse for him and Leo
Dillon was to tell his brother to say he was sick.
We arranged to go along the Wharf Road until we
came to the ships, then to cross in the ferryboat and
walk out to see the Pigeon House. Leo Dillon was
afraid we might meet Father Butler or someone out
of the college ; but Mahony asked, very sensibly,
what would Father Butler be doing out at the Pigeon
House. We were reassured : and I brought the
first stage of the plot to an end by collecting sixpence
from the other two, at the same time showing them
my own sixpence. When we were making the last

24 DUBLINERS

arrangements on the eve we were all vaguely excited.
We shook hands, laughing, and Mahony said :

' Till to-morrow, mates ! '

That night I slept badly. In the morning I was
first-comer to the bridge as I lived nearest. I hid my
books in the long grass near the ashpit at the end of
the garden where nobody ever came and hurried
along the canal bank. It was a mild sunny morning
in the first week of June. I sat up on the coping of
the bridge admiring my frail canvas shoes which I
had diligently pipeclayed overnight and watching the
docile horses pulling a tramload of business people
up the hill. All the branches of the tall trees which
lined the mall were gay with little light green leaves
and the sunlight slanted through them on to the water.
The granite stone of the bridge was beginning to be
warm and I began to pat it with my hands in time to
an air in my head. I was very happy.

When I had been sitting there for five or ten
minutes I saw Mahony's grey suit approaching.
He came up the hill, smiling, and clambered up beside
me on the bridge. While we were waiting he brought
out the catapult which bulged from his inner pocket
and explained some improvements which he had made
in it. I asked him why he had brought it and he told
me he had brought it to have some gas with the birds.
Mahony used slang freely, and spoke of Father Butler
as Old Bunser. We waited on for a quarter of an
hour more but still there was no sign of Leo Dillon.
Mahony, at last, jumped down and said :

' Come along. I knew Fatty'd funk it.'

AN ENCOUNTER 25

' And his sixpence. . . . ? ' I said.

' That's forfeit,' said Mahony. ' And so much the
better for us — a bob and a tanner instead of a bob.'

We walked along the North Strand Road till we
came to the Vitriol Works and then turned to the
right along the Wharf Road. Mahony began to play
the Indian as soon as we were out of public sight.
He chased a crowd of ragged girls, brandishing his
unloaded catapult and, when two ragged boys began,
out of chivalry, to fling stones at us, he proposed that
we should charge them. I objected that the boys
were too small, and so we walked on, the ragged troop
screaming after us : ' Swaddlers! Swaddlers ! ' thinking
tliat we were Protestants because Mahony, who was
dark-complexioned, wore the silver badge of a cricket
club in his cap. Wlien we came to the Smoothing
Iron we arranged a siege ; but it was a failure because
you must have at least three. We revenged ourselves
on Leo Dillon by saying what a funk he was and
guessing how many he would get at three o'clock
from Mr Ryan.

We came then near the river. We spent a long
time walking about the noisy streets flanked by
high stone walls, watching the working of cranes and
engines and often being shouted at for our immobility
by the drivers of groaning carts. It was noon when
we reached the quays and, as all the labourers seemed
to be eating their lunches, we bought two big currant
buns and sat down to eat them on some metal piping
beside the river. We pleased ourselves with the
spectacle of Dublin's commerce — the barges signalled

26 DUBLINERS

from far away by their curls of woolly smoke, the
brown fishmg fleet beyond Ringsend, the big white
sailing-vessel which was being discharged on the
opposite quay. Mahony said it would be right skit
to run away to sea on one of those big ships and even
I, looking at the high masts, saw, or imagined, the
geography which had been scantily dosed to me at
school gradually taking substance under my eyes.
School and home seemed to recede from us and their
influences upon us seemed to wane.

We crossed the Liffey in the ferryboat, paying
our toll to be transported in the company of two
labourers and a little Jew with a bag. We were
serious to the point of solemnity, but once during the
short voyage our eyes met and we laughed. When
we landed we watched the discharging of the graceful
three-master which we had observed from the other
quay. Some bystander said that she was a Norwegian
vessel. I went to the stern and tried to decipher the
legend upon it but, failing to do so, I came back and
examined the foreign sailors to see had any of them
green eyes for I had some confused notion. . . .
The sailors' eyes were blue and grey and even black.
The only sailor whose eyes could have been called
green was a tall man who amused the crowd on the
quay by calling out cheerfully every time the planks
fell:

'All right! all right!'

When we were tired of this sight we wandered slowly
into Ringsend. The day had grown sultry, and in
the windows of the grocers' shops musty biscuits lay

AN ENCOUNTER 27

bleaching. We bought some biscuits and chocolate
which we ate sedulously as we wandered through the
squalid streets where the families of the fishermen
live. We could find no dairy and so we went into a
huckster's shop and bought a bottle of raspberry
lemonade each. Refreshed by this, Mahony chased
a cat down a lane, but the cat escaped into a wide
field. We both felt rather tired and when we reached
the field we made at once for a sloping bank over the
ridge of which we could see the Dodder.

It was too late and we were too tired to carry out
our project of visiting the Pigeon House. We had
to be home before four o'clock lest our adventure
should be discovered. Mahony looked regretfully
at his catapult and I had to suggest going home by
train before he regained any cheerfulness. The sun
went in behind some clouds and left us to our jaded
thoughts and the crumbs of our provisions.

There was nobody but ourselves in the field.
When we had lain on the bank for some time without
speaking I saw a man approaching from the far end
of the field. I watched him lazily as I chewed one
of those green stems on which girls tell fortunes.
He came along by the bank slowly. He walked with
one hand upon his hip and in the other hand he held
a stick with which he tapped the turf lightly. He
was shabbily dressed in a suit of greenish -black and
wore what we used to call a jerry hat with a high
crown. He seemed to be fairly old for his moustache
was ashen-grey. When he passed at our feet he
glanced up at us quickly and then continued his way.

28 DUBLINERS

We followed him with our eyes and saw that when he
had gone on for perhaps fifty paces he turned about
and began to retrace his steps. He walked towards
us very slowly, always tapping the ground with his
stick, so slowly that I thought he was looking for
something in the grass.

He stopped when he came level with us and bade
us good-day. We answered him and he sat down
beside us on the slope slowly and with great care.
He began to talk of the weather, saying that it would
be a very hot summer and adding that the seasons
had changed greatly since he was a boy — a long time
ago. He said that the happiest time of one's life was
undoubtedly one's schoolboy days and that he would
give anything to be young again. While he expressed
these sentiments which bored us a little we kept
silent. Then he began to talk of school and of books.
He asked us whether we had read the poetry of
Thomas Moore or the works of Sir Walter Scott and
Lord Lytton. I pretended that I had read every
book he mentioned so that in the end he said :

' Ah, I can see you are a bookworm like myself.
Now,' he added, pointing to Mahony who was
regarding us with open eyes, ' he is different ; he goes
in for games.'

He said he had all Sir Walter Scott's works and all
Lord Lytton's works at home and never tired of read-
ing them. ' Of course,' he said, ' there were some
of Lord Lytton's works which boys couldn't read.'
Mahony asked why couldn't boys read them — ^a
question which agitated and pained me because I was

AN ENCOUNTER 29

afraid the man would think I was as stupid as Mahony.
The man, however, only smiled. I saw that he had
great gaps in his mouth between his yellow teeth.
Then he asked us which of us had the most sweet-
hearts. Mahony mentioned lightly that he had
three totties. The man asked me how many I had.
I answered that I had none. He did not beUeve me
and said he was sure I must have one. I was silent.

' Tell us,' said Mahony pertly to the man, ' how
many have you yourself ? '

The man smiled as before and said that when he
was our age he had lots of sweethearts.

' Every boy,' he said, ' has a little sweetheart.'

His attitude on this point struck me as strangely
liberal in a man of his age. In my heart I thought
that what he said about boys and sweethearts was
reasonable. But I disliked the words in his mouth
and I wondered why he shivered once or twice as if
he feared something or felt a sudden chill. As he
proceeded I noticed that his accent was good. He
began to speak to us about girls, saying what nice soft
hair they had and how soft their hands were and how
all girls were not so good as they seemed to be if one
only knew. There was nothing he liked, he said, so
much as looking at a nice young girl, at her nice white
hands and her beautiful soft hair. He gave me the
impression that he was repeating something which
he had learned by heart or that, magnetised by some
words of his own speech, his mind was slowly circling
round and round in the same orbit. At times he
spoke as if he were simply alluding to some fact that

30 DUBLINERS

everybody knew, and at times he lowered his voice
and spoke mysteriously as if he were telling us some-
thing secret which he did not wish others to overhear.
He repeated his phrases over and over again, varying
them and surrounding them with his monotonous
voice. I continued to gaze towards the foot of the
slope, listening to him.

After a long while his monologue paused. He
stood up slowly, saying that he had to leave us for
a minute or so, a few minutes, and, without changing
the direction of my gaze, I saw him walking slowly
away from us towards the near end of the field.
We remained silent when he had gone. After a
silence of a few minutes I heard Mahony exclaim :

' I say ! Look what he's doing ! '

As I neither answered nor raised my eyes Mahony
exclaimed again :

' I say . . . He's a queer old josser ! '

' In case he asks us for our names,' I said, ' let you
be Murphy and I'll be Smith.'

We said nothing further to each other. I was
still considering whether I would go away or not when
the man came back and sat down beside us again.
Hardly had he sat down when Mahony, catching
sight of the cat which had escaped him, sprang up
and pursued her across the field. The man and I
watched the chase. The cat escaped once more and
Mahony began to throw stones at the wall she had
escaladed. Desisting from this, he began to wander
about the far end of the field, aimlessly.

After an interval the man spoke to me. He said

AN ENCOUNTER 31

that my friend was a very rough boy and asked did
he get whipped often at school. I was going to reply
indignantly that we were not National School boys
to be whipped, as he called it ; but I remained silent.
He began to speak on the subject of chastising boys.
His mind, as if magnetised again by his speech,
seemed to circle slowly round and round its new
centre. He said that when boys were that kind they
ought to be whipped and well whipped. When a boy
was rough and unruly there was nothing would do
him any good but a good sound whipping. A slap on
the hand or a box on the ear was no good : what he
wanted was to get a nice warm whipping. I was
surprised at this sentiment and involuntarily glanced
up at his face. As I did so I met the gaze of a pair
of bottle-green eyes peering at me from under a
twitching forehead. I turned my eyes away again.

The man continued his monologue. He seemed
to have forgotten his recent liberalism. He said
that if ever he found a boy talking to girls or having
a girl for a sweetheart he would whip him and whip
him ; and that would teach him not to be talking to
girls. And if a boy had a girl for a sweetheart and
told lies about it then he would give him such a
whipping as no boy ever got in this world. He said
that there was nothing in this world he would like so
well as that. He described to me how he would whip
such a boy as if he were unfolding some elaborate
mystery. He would love that, he said, better than
anything in this world ; and his voice, as he led me
monotonously through the mystery, grew almost

32 DUBLINERS

affectionate and seemed to plead with me that I
should understand him.

I waited till his monologue paused again. Then I
stood up abruptly. Lest I should betray my agita-
tion I delayed a few moments pretending to fix my
shoe properly and then, saying that I was obliged to
go, I bade him good-day. I went up the slope calmly
but my heart was beating quickly with fear that he
would seize me by the ankles. When I reached the
top of the slope I turned round and, without looking
at him, called loudly across the field :

' Murphy ! '

My voice had an accent of forced bravery in it and
I was ashamed of my paltry stratagem. I had to call
the name again before Mahony saw me and hallooed
in answer. How my heart beat as he came running
across the field to me ! He ran as if to bring me aid.
And I was penitent ; for in my heart I had always
despised him a little.

ARABY

North Richmond Street, being blind, was a quiet
street except at the hour when the Christian Brothers'
School set the boys free. An uninhabited house of
two storeys stood at the blind end, detached from its
neighbours in a square ground. The other houses of
the street, conscious of decent lives within them,
gazed at one another with brown imperturbable
faces.

The former tenant of our house, a priest, had died
in the back drawing-room. Air, musty from having
been long enclosed, hung in all the rooms, and the
waste room behind the kitchen was littered with old
useless papers. Among these I found a few paper-
covered books, the pages of which were curled and
damp : The Abbot, by Walter Scott, The Devout
Communicant and The Memoirs of Vidocq. I liked
the last best because its leaves were yellow. The
wild garden behind the house contained a central
apple-tree and a few straggling bushes under one of
which I found the late tenant's rusty bicycle-pump.
He had been a very charitable priest ; in his will he
had left all his money to institutions and the furniture
of his house to his sister.

When the short days of winter came dusk fell
before we had well eaten our dinners. When we met
c 33

34 DUBLINERS

in the street the houses had grown sombre. The
space of sky above us was the colour of ever-changing
violet and towards it the lamps of the street lifted
their feeble lanterns. The cold air stung us and we
played till our bodies glowed. Our shouts echoed
in the silent street. The career of our play brought
us through the dark muddy lanes behind the houses
where we ran the gauntlet of the rough tribes from
the cottages, to the back doors of the dark dripping
gardens where odours arose from the ashpits, to the
dark odorous stables where a coachman smoothed and
combed the horse or shook music from the buckled
harness. When we returned to the street light from
the kitchen windows had filled the areas. If my uncle
was seen turning the comer we hid in the shadow
until we had seen him safely housed. Or if Mangan's
sister came out on the doorstep to call her brother in
to his tea we watched her from our shadow peer up
and down the street. We waited to see whether she
would remain or go in and, if she remained, we left our
shadow and walked up to Mangan's steps resignedly.
She was waiting for us, her figure defined by the light
from the half-opened door. Her brother always
teased her before he obeyed and I stood by the railings
looking at her. Her dress swung as she moved her
body and the soft rope of her hair tossed f rqm side to
side.

Every morning I lay on the floor in the front
parlour watching her door. The blind was pulled
down to within an inch of the sash so that I could not
be seen. When she came out on the doorstep my

ARABY 85

heart leaped. I ran to the hall, seized my books and
followed her. I kept her brown figure always in my
eye and, when we came near the point at which our
ways diverged, I quickened my pace and passed her.
This happened morning after morning. I had never
spoken to her, except for a few casual words, and yet
her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood.

Her image accompanied me even in places the most
hostile to romance. On Saturday evenings when my
aunt went marketing I had to go to carry some of
the parcels. We walked through the flaring streets,
jostled by drunken men and bargaining women, amid
the curses of labourers, the shrill litanies of shop-
boys who stood on guard by the barrels of pigs'
cheeks, the nasal chanting of street-singers, who sang
a come-all-you about O 'Donovan Rossa, or a ballad
about the troubles in our native land. These noises
converged in a single sensation of life for me : I
imagined that I bore my chalice safely through a
throng of foes. Her name sprang to my lips at
moments in strange prayers and praises which I
myself did not understand. My eyes were often
full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood
from my heart seemed to pour itself out into my
bosom. I thought little of the future. I did not
know whether I would ever speak to her or not or,
if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused
adoration. But my body was like a harp and her
words and gestures were like fingers running upon the
wires.

One evening I went into the back drawmg-room

36 DUBLINERS

in which the priest had died. It was a dark rainy
evening and there was no sound in the house.
Through one of the broken panes I heard the rain
impinge upon the earth, the fine incessant needles
of water playing in the sodden beds. Some distant
lamp or lighted window gleamed below me. I was
thankful that I could see so little. All my senses
seemed to desire to veil themselves and, feeling that
I was about to slip from them, I pressed the palms of
my hands together until they trembled, murmuring :
* 0 love ! 0 love ! ' many times.

At last she spoke to me. When she addressed the
first words to me I was so confused that I did not
know what to answer. She asked me was I going to
Arahy. I forget whether I answered yes or no.
It would be a splendid bazaar, she said she would
love to go.

' And why can't you ? ' I asked.

While she spoke she turned a silver bracelet round
and round her wrist. She could not go, she said,
because there would be a retreat that week in her
convent. Her brother and two other boys were fight-
ing for their caps and I was alone at the railings. She
held one of the spikes, bowing her head towards me.
The light from the lamp opposite our door caught the
white curve of her neck, lit up her hair that rested
there and, falling, lit up the hand upon the railing.
It fell over one side of her dress and caught the white
border of a petticoat, just visible as she stood at ease.

' It's well for you,' she said.

' If I go,' I said, ' I will bring you something.'

ARABY 87

What innumerable follies laid waste my waking
and sleeping thoughts after that evening ! I wished
to annihilate the tedious intervening days. I chafed
against the work of school. At night in my bedroom
and by day in the classroom her image came between
me and the page I strove to read. The syllables of
the word Araby were called to me through the silence
in which my soul luxuriated and cast an Eastern
enchantment over me. I asked for leave to go to the
bazaar on Saturday night. My aunt was surprised
and hoped it was not some Freemason affair. I
answered few questions in class. I watched my
master's face pass from amiability to sternness ; he
hoped I was not beginning to idle. I could not call
my wandering thoughts together. I had hardly any
patience with the serious work of life which, now that
it stood between me and my desire, seemed to me
child's play, ugly monotonous child's play.

On Saturday morning I reminded my uncle that
I wished to go to the bazaar in the evening. He was
fussing at the hallstand, looking for the hat-brush,
and answered me curtly :

' Yes, boy, I know.'

As he was in the hall I could not go into the front
parlour and lie at the window. I left the house in
bad humour and walked slowly towards the school.
The air was pitilessly raw and already my heart
misgave me.

When I came home to dinner my uncle had not
yet been home. Still it was early. I sat staring at
the clock for some time and, when its ticking began

38 DUBLINERS

to irritate me, I left the room. I mounted the stair-
case and gained the upper part of the house. The
high cold empty gloomy rooms liberated me and I
went from room to room singing. From the front
window I saw my companions playing below in the
street. Their cries reached me weakened and in-
distinct and, leaning my forehead against the cool
glass, I looked over at the dark house where she lived.
I may have stood there for an hour, seeing nothing but
the brown-clad figure cast by my imagination, touched
discreetly by the lamplight at the curved neck, at
the hand upon the railings and at the border below
the dress.

When I came downstairs again I found Mrs Mercer
sitting at the fire. She was an old garrulous woman,
a pawnbroker's widow, who collected used stamps
for some pious purpose. I had to endure the gossip
of the tea-table. The meal was prolonged beyond
an hour and still my uncle did not come. Mrs Mercer
stood up to go : she was sorry she couldn't wait any
longer, but it was after eight o'clock and she did not
like to be out late, as the night air was bad for her.
When she had gone I began to walk up and down
the room, clenching my fists. My aunt said :

' I'm afraid you may put off your bazaar for this
night of Our Lord.'

At nine o'clock I heard my uncle's latchkey in the
halldoor. I heard him talking to himself and heard
the hallstand rocking when it had received the
weight of his overcoat. I could interpret these signs.
When he was midway through his dinner I asked him

ARABY 89

to give me the money to go to the bazaar. He had
forgotten.

' The people are in bed and after their first sleep
now,' he said.

I did not smile. My aunt said to him energetically :

' Can't you give him the money and let him go ?
You've kept him late enough as it is.'

My uncle said he was very sorry he had forgotten.
He said he believed in the old saying : ' All work and
no play makes Jack a dull boy.' He asked me where
I was going and, when I had told him a second time
he asked me did I know The AraVs Farewell to his
Steed. When I left the kitchen he was about to recite
the opening lines of the piece to my aunt.

I held a florin tightly in my hand as I strode down
Buckingham Street towards the station. The sight
of the streets thronged with buyers and glaring with
gas recalled to me the purpose of my journey. I took
my seat in a third-class carriage of a deserted train.
After an intolerable delay the train moved out of the
station slowly. It crept onward among ruinous
houses and over the twinkling river. At Westland
Row Station a crowd of people pressed to the carriage
doors ; but the porters moved them back, saying that
it was a special train for the bazaar. I remained
alone in the bare carriage. In a few minutes the
train drew up beside an improvised wooden platform.
I passed out on to the road and saw by the lighted
dial of a clock that it was ten minutes to ten. In
front of me was a large building which displayed the
magical name.

V

40 DUBLINERS

I could not find any sixpenny entrance and, fearing
that the bazaar would be closed, I passed in quickly
through a turnstile, handing a shilling to a weary-
looking man. I found myself in a big hall girdled
at half its height by a gallery. Nearly all the stalls
were closed and the greater part of the hall was in
darkness. I recognised a silence like that which
pervades a church after a service. I walked into the
centre of the bazaar timidly. A few people were
gathered about the stalls which were still open.
Before a curtain, over which the words Cafi Chantant
were written in coloured lamps, two men were count-
ing money on a salver. I listened to the fall of the
coins.

Remembering with difficulty why I had come I
went over to one of the stalls and examined porcelain
vases and flowered tea-sets. At the door of the stall
a young lady was talking and laughing with two
young gentlemen. I remarked their English accents
and listened vaguely to their conversation.

' O, I never said such a thing ! '

' O, but you did ! *

' O, but I didn't ! '

' Didn't she say that ? '

' Yes. I heard her.'

' O, there's a ... fib ! '

Observing me the young lady came over and asked
me did I wish to buy anything. The tone of her
voice was not encouraging ; she seemed to have
spoken to me out of a sense of duty. I looked
humbly at the great jars that stood like eastern

ARABY 41

guards at either side of the dark entrance to the stall
and murmured :

* No, thank you.'

The young lady changed the position of one of the
vases and went back to the two young men. They
began to talk of the same subject. Once or twice
the young lady glanced at me over her shoulder.

I lingered before her stall, though I knew my stay
was useless, to make my interest in her wares seem
the more real. Then I turned away slowly and
walked down the middle of the bazaar. I allowed
the two pennies to fall against the sixpence in my
pocket. I heard a voice call from one end of the
gallery that the light was out. The upper part of
the hall was now completely dark.

Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a
creature driven and derided by vanity ; and my eyes
burned with anguish and anger.

EVELINE

She sat at the window watching the evening invade
the avenue. Her head was leaned against the
window curtains and in her nostrils was the odour
of dusty cretonne. She was tired.

Few people passed. The man out of the last house
passed on his way home ; she heard his footsteps
clacking along the concrete pavement and afterwards
crunching on the cinder path before the new red
houses. One time there used to be a field there in
which they used to play every evening with other
people's children. Then a man from Belfast bought
the field and built houses in it — not like their little
brown houses but bright brick houses with shining
roofs. The children of the avenue used to play
together in that field — the Devines, the Waters, the
Dunns, little Keogh the cripple, she and her brothers
and sisters. Ernest, however, never played : he
was too grown up. Her father used often to hunt
them in out of the field with his blackthorn stick ;
but usually little Keogh used to keep nix and call out
when he saw her father coming. Still they seemed
to have been rather happy then. Her father was
not so bad then ; and besides, her mother was alive.
That was a long time ago ; she and her brothers and
sisters were all grown up ; her mother was dead.

42

EVELINE 48

Tizzie Dunn was dead, too, and the Waters had gone
back to England. Everything changes. Now she
was going to go away hke the others, to leave her
home.

Home ! She looked round the room, reviewing
all its familiar objects which she had dusted once
a week for so many years, wondering where on earth
all the dust came from. Perhaps she would never
see again those familiar objects from which she had
never dreamed of being divided. And yet during all
those years she had never found out the name of the
priest whose yellowing photograph hung on the wall
above the broken harmonium beside the coloured
print of the promises made to Blessed Margaret Mary
Alacoque. He had been a school friend of her
father. Whenever he showed the photograph to a
visitor her father used to pass it with a casual word :

' He is in Melbourne now.'

She had consented to go away, to leave her home.
Was that wise ? She tried to weigh each side of the
question. In her home anyway she had shelter and
food ; she had those whom she had known all her life
about her. Of course she had to work hard, both
in the house and at business. What would they say
of her in the Stores when they found out that she
had run away with a fellow ? Say she was a fool,
perhaps ; and her place would be filled up by adver-
tisement. Miss Gavan would be glad. She had
always had an edge on her, especially whenever there
were people listening.

' Miss Hill, don't you see these ladies are waiting ? '

44 DUBLINERS

* Look lively, Miss Hill, please.'

She would not cry many tears at leaving the
Stores.

But in her new home, in a distant unknown country,
it would not be like that. Then she would be
married — she, Eveline. People would treat her with
respect then. She would not be treated as her
mother had been. Even now, though she was over
nineteen, she sometimes felt herself in danger of her
father's violence. She knew it was that that had
given her the palpitations. When they were grow-
ing up he had never gone for her, like he used to go
for Harry and Ernest, because she was a girl ; but
latterly he had begun to threaten her and say what
he would do to her only for her dead mother's sake.
And now she had nobody to protect her. Ernest
was dead and Harry, who was in the church decorat-
ing business, was nearly always down somewhere in
the country. Besides, the invariable squabble for
money on Saturday nights had begun to weary her
unspeakably. She always gave her entire wages —
seven shillings — and Harry always sent up what he
could but the trouble was to get any money from her
father. He said she used to squander the money,
that she had no head, that he wasn't going to give her
his hard-earned money to throw about the streets,
and much more, for he was usually fairly bad on Satur-
day night. In the end he would give her the money
and ask her had she any intention of buying Sunday's
dinner. Then she had to rush out as quickly as she
could and do her marketing, holding her black

EVELINE 45

leather purse tightly in her hand as she elbowed her
way through the crowds and returning home late
under her load of provisions. She had hard work
to keep the house together and to see that the two
young children who had been left to her charge went
to school regularly and got their meals regularly.
It was hard work — a hard life — but now that she
was about to leave it she did not find it a wholly
undesirable life.

She was about to explore another life with Frank.
Frank was very kind, manly, open-hearted. She
was to go away with him by the night-boat to be his
wife and to live with him in Buenos Ayres where he
had a home waiting for her. How well she remem-
bered the first time she had seen him ; he was lodging
in a house on the main road where she used to visit.
It seemed a few weeks ago. He was standing at the
gate, his peaked cap pushed back on his head and his
hair tumbled forward over a face of bronze. Then
they had come to know each other. He used to meet
her outside the Stores every evening and see her
home. He took her to see The Bohemian Girl and
she felt elated as she sat in an unaccustomed part of
the theatre with him. He was awfully fond of music
and sang a little. People knew that they were
courting and, when he sang about the lass that loves
a sailor, she always felt pleasantly confused. He
used to call her Poppens out of fun. First of all it
had been an excitement for her to have a fellow and
then she had begun to like him. He had tales of
distant countries. He had started as a deck boy at

46 DUBLINERS

a pound a month on a ship of the Allan Line going
out to Canada. He told her the names of the ships he
had been on and the names of the different services.
He had sailed through the Straits of Magellan and
he told her stories of the terrible Patagonians. He
had fallen on his feet in Buenos Ayres, he said, and
had come over to the old country just for a holiday.
Of course, her father had found out the affair and
had forbidden her to have anything to say to him.

' I know these sailor chaps,' he said.

One day he had quarrelled with Frank and after
that she had to meet her lover secretly.

The evening deepened in the avenue. The white
of two letters in her lap grew indistinct. One was
to Harry ; the other was to her father. Ernest had
been her favourite but she liked Harry too. Her
father was becoming old lately, she noticed ; he would
miss her. Sometimes he could be very nice. Not
long before, when she had been laid up for a day, he
had read her out a ghost story and made toast for
her at the fire. Another day, when their mother was
alive, they had all gone for a picnic to the Hill of
Howth. She remembered her father putting on her
mother's bonnet to make the children laugh.

Her time was running out but she continued to sit
by the window, leaning her head against the window
curtain, inhaling the odour of dusty cretonne. Down
far in the avenue she could hear a street organ playing.
She knew the air. Strange that it should come that
very night to remind her of the promise to her mother,
her promise to keep the home together as long as she

EVELINE 4T

could. She r^nembered the last night of her mother's
illness ; she was again in the close dark room at the
other side of the hall and outside she heard a
melancholy air of Italy. The organ-player had
been ordered to go away and given sixpence. She
remembered her father strutting back into the
sickroom saying:

' Damned Italians ! coming over here 1 '
As she mused the pitiful vision of her mother's life
laid its spell on the very quick of her being — that life
of commonplace sacrifices closing in final craziness.
She trembled as she heard again her mother's voice
saying constantly with foolish insistence :
' Derevaun Seraun ! Derevaun Seraun ! '
She stood up in a sudden impulse of terror.
Escape 1 She must escape ! Frank would save her.
He would give her Hf e, perhaps love, too. But she
wanted to live. Why should she be unhappy ?
She had a right to happiness. Frank would take her
in his arms, fold her in his arms. He would save her.

She stood among the swaying crowd in the station
at the North Wall. He held her hand and she knew
that he was speaking to her, saying something about
the passage over and over again. The station was
full of soldiers with brown baggages. Through the
wide doors of the sheds she caught a glimpse of the
black mass of the boat, lying in beside the quay wall,
with illumined portholes. She answered nothing.
She felt her cheek pale and cold and, out of a maze of
distress, she prayed to God to direct her, to show her

48 DUBLINERS

what was her duty. The boat blew a long mournful
whistle into the mist. If she went, to-morrow she
would be on the sea with Frank, steaming towards
Buenos Ayres. Their passage had been booked.
Could she still draw back after all he had done for
her ? Her distress awoke a nausea in her body and
she kept moving her lips in silent fervent prayer.

A bell clanged upon her heart. She felt him seize
her hand ;

' Come ! '

All the seas of the world tumbled about her heart.
He was drawing her into them : he would drown her.
She gripped with both hands at the iron railing.

' Come ! '

No ! No ! No ! It was impossible. Her hands
clutched the iron in frenzy. Amid the seas she sent
a cry of anguish !

' Eveline ! Ewy ! '

He rushed beyond the barrier and called to her
to follow. He was shouted at to go on but he still
called to her. She set her white face to him, passive,
like a helpless animal. Her eyes gave him no sign
of love or farewell or recognition.

AFTER THE RACE

The cars came scudding in towards Dublin, running
evenly like pellets in the groove of the Naas Road.
At the crest of the hill at Inchicore sightseers had
gathered in clumps to watch the cars careering
homeward and through this channel of poverty and
inaction the Continent sped its wealth and industry.
Now and again the clumps of people raised the cheer
of the gratefully oppressed. Their sympathy, how-
ever, was for the blue cars — the cars of their friends,
the French.

The French, moreover, were virtual victors.
Their team had finished solidly ; they had been
placed second and third and the driver of the winning
German car was reported a Belgian. Each blue car,
therefore, received a double measure of welcome as
it topped the crest of the hill and each cheer of
welcome was acknowledged with smiles and nods by
those in the car. In one of these trimly built cars
was a party of four young men whose spirits seemed
to be at present well above the level of successful
Gallicism : in fact, these four young men were almost
hilarious. They were Charles S^gouin, the owner
of the car; Andr^ Riviere, a young electrician of
Canadian birth ; a huge Hungarian named Villona
and a neatly groomed young man named Doyle.
D 49

50 DUBLINERS

S^gouin was in good humour because he had un-
expectedly received some orders in advance (he was
about to start a motor establishment in Paris) and
Riviere was in good humour because he was to be
appointed manager of the establishment ; these two
young men (who were cousins) were also in good
humour because of the success of the French cars.
Villona was in good humour because he had had a
very satisfactory luncheon ; and besides he was an
optimist by nature. The fourth member of the party,
however, was too excited to be genuinely happy.

He was about twenty-six years of age, with a soft,
light brown moustache and rather innocent-looking
grey eyes. His father, who had begun life as an
advanced Nationalist, had modified his views early.
He had made his money as a butcher in Kingstown
and by opening shops in Dublin and in the suburbs
he had made his money many times over. He had
also been fortunate enough to secure some of the police
contracts and in the end he had become rich enough
to be alluded to in the Dublin newspapers as a
merchant prince. He had Sent his son to England
to be educated in a big Catholic college and had
afterwards sent him to Dublin University lo study
law. Jimmy did not study very earnestly and took
to bad courses for a while. He had money and he
was popular ; and he divided his time curiously
between musical and motoring circles. Then he had
been sent for a term to Cambridge to see a little life.
His father, remonstrative, but covertly proud of the
excess, had paid his bills and brought him home.

AFTER THE RACE 51

It was at Cambridge that he had met S^gouin. They
were not much more than acquaintances as yet but
Jimmy found great pleasure in the society of one
who had seen so much of the world and was reputed
to own some of the biggest hotels in France. Such
a person (as his father agreed) was well worth know-
ing, even if he had not been the charming companion
he was. Villona was entertaining also — ^a brilliant
pianist — but, unfortunately, very poor.

The car ran on merrily with its cargo of hilarious
youth. The two cousins sat on the front seat ; Jimmy
and his Hungarian friend sat behind. Decidedly
Villona was in excellent spirits ; he kept up a deep
bass hum of melody for miles of the road. The
Frenchmen flung their laughter and light words
over their shoulders and often Jimmy had to strain
forward to catch the quick phrase. This was not
altogether pleasant for him, as he had nearly always
to make a deft guess at the meaning and shout
back a suitable answer in the face of a high wind.
Besides Villona 's humming would confuse anybody ;
the noise of the car, too.

Rapid motion through space elates one ; so does
notoriety ; so does the possession of money. These
were three good reasons for Jimmy's excitement.
He had been seen by many of his friends that day in
the company of these Continentals. At the control
S^gouin had presented him to one of the French
competitors and, in answer to his confused murmur
of compliment, the swarthy face of the driver had
disclosed a line of shining white teeth. It was pleas-

52 DUBLINERS

ant after that honour to return to the profane world
of spectators amid nudges and signifieant looks.
Then as to money — ^he really had a great sum under
his control. Segouin, perhaps, would not think it a
great sum but Jimmy who, in spite of temporary
errors, was at heart the inheritor of solid instincts
knew well with what difficulty it had been got to-
gether. This knowledge had previously kept his bills
within the limits of reasonable recklessness and, if
he had been so conscious of the labour latent in
money when there had been question merely of some
freak of the higher intelligence, how much more so
now when he was about to stake the greater part of
his substance ! It was a serious thing for him.

Of course, the investment was a good one and
S6gouin had managed to give the impression that it
was by a favour of friendship the mite of Irish money
was to be included in the capital of the concern.
Jimmy had a respect for his father's shrewdness in
business matters and in this case it had been his father
who had first suggested the investment ; money to be
made in the motor business, pots of money. More-
over Segouin had the unmistakable air of wealth.
Jimmy set out to translate into days' work that
lordly car in which he sat. How smoothly it ran.
In what style they had come careering along the
country roads ! The journey laid a magical finger
on the genuine pulse of life and gallantly the
machinery of human nerves strove to answer the
bounding courses of the swift blue animal.

They drove down Dame Street. The street was

AFTER THE RACE 58

busy with unusual traffic, loud with the horns of
motorists and the gongs of impatient tram-drivers.
Near the Bank Segouin drew up and Jimmy and his
friend alighted. A little knot of people collected on
the footpath to pay homage to the snorting motor.
The party was to dine together that evening in
S6gouin's hotel and, meanwhile, Jimmy and his
friend, who was staying with him, were to go home to
dress. The car steered out slowly for Grafton Street
while the two young men pushed their way through
the knot of gazers. They walked northward with
a curious feeling of disappointment in the exercise,
while the city hung its pale globes of light above
them in a haze of summer evening.

In Jimmy's house this dinner had been pronounced
an occasion. A certain pride mingled with his parents'
trepidation, a certain eagerness, also, to play fast and
loose for the names of great foreign cities have at least
this virtue. Jimmy, too, looked very well when he
was dressed and, as he stood in the hall giving a last
equation to the bows of his dress tie, his father may
have felt even commercially satisfied at having
secured for his son qualities often unpurchasable.
His father, therefore, was unusually friendly with
Villona and his manner expressed a real respect
for foreign accompHshments ; but this subtlety of his
host was probably lost upon the Hungarian, who was
beginning to have a sharp desire for his dinner.

The dinner was excellent, exquisite. Segouin,
Jimmy decided, had a very refined taste. The party
was increased by a young Englishman named Routh

54 DUBLINERS

whom Jimmy had seen with S6gouin at Cambridge.
The young men supped in a snug room lit by electric
candle-lamps. They talked volubly and with little
reserve. Jimmy, whose imagination was kindling,
conceived the lively youth of the Frenchmen twined
elegantly upon the firm framework of the English-
man's manner. A graceful image of his, he thought,
and a just one. He admired the dexterity with
which their host directed the conversation. The five
young men had various tastes and their tongues had
been loosened. Villona, with immense respect,
began to discover to the mildly surprised Englishman
the beauties of the English madrigal, deploring the
loss of old instruments. Riviere, not wholly ingenu-
ously, undertook to explain to Jimmy the triumph
of the French mechanicians. The resonant voice of
the Hungarian was about to prevail in ridicule of
the spurious lutes of the romantic painters when
S6gouin shepherded his party into politics. Here
was congenial ground for all. Jimmy, under
generous influences, felt the buried zeal of his father
wake to life within him : he aroused the torpid Routh
at last. The room grew doubly hot and Segouin's
task grew harder each moment : there was even
danger of personal spite. The alert host at an
opportunity lifted his glass to Humanity and, when
the toast had been drunk, he threw open a window
significantly.

That night the city wore the mask of a capital.
The five young men strolled along Stephen's Green
in a faint cloud of aromatic smoke. They talked

AFTER THE RACE 55

loudly and gaily and their cloaks dangled from their
shoulders. The people made way for them. At the
comer of Grafton Street a short fat man was putting
two handsome ladies on a car in charge of another
fat man. The car drove off and the short fat man
caught sight of the party.

'Andre.'

' It's Farley ! '

A torrent of talk followed. Farley was an
American. No one knew very well what the talk was
about. Villona and Riviere were the noisiest, but
all the men were excited. They got up on a car,
squeezing themselves together amid much laughter.
They drove by the crowd, blended now into soft
colours, to a music of merry bells. They took the
train at Westland Row and in a few seconds, as it
seemed to Jimmy, they were walking out of Kings-
town Station. The ticket-collector saluted Jimmy ;
he was an old man :

' Fine night, sir ! '

It was a serene summer night ; the harbour lay
like a darkened mirror at their feet. They proceeded
towards it with linked arms, singing Cadet Roussel
in chorus, stamping their feet at every :

' Ho ! Ho ! Hohi, vraiment ! '

They got into a rowboat at the slip and made out
for the American's yacht. There was to be supper,
music, cards. Villona said with conviction :

' It is delightful ! '

There was a yacht piano in the cabin. Villona
played a waltz for Farley and Riviere, Farley acting

56 DUBLINERS

as cavalier and Riviere as lady. Then an impromptu
square dance, the men devising original figures.
What merriment ! Jimmy took his part with a will ;
this was seeing life, at least. Then Farley got out of
breath and cried ' Stop ! ' A man brought in a light
supper, and the young men sat down to it for form's
sake. They drank, however : it was Bohemian.
They drank Ireland, England, France, Hungary, the
United States of America. Jimmy made a speech,
a long speech, Villona saying : ' Hear ! hear ! '
whenever there was a pause. There was a great
clapping of hands when he sat down. It must have
been a good speech. Farley clapped him on the back
and laughed loudly. What jovial fellows ! What
good company they were !

Cards ! cards ! The table was cleared. Villona
returned quietly to his piano and played voluntaries
for them. The other men played game after game,
flinging themselves boldly into the adventure. They
drank the health of the Queen of Hearts and of the
Queen of Diamonds. Jimmy felt obscurely the lack
of an audience : the wit was flashing. Play ran very
high and paper began to pass. Jimmy did not know
exactly who was winning but he knew that he was
losing. But it was his own fault for he frequently
mistook his cards and the other men had to calculate
his I.O.U.'s for him. They were devils of fellows
but he wished they would stop : it was getting late.
Someone gave the toast of the yacht The Belle of
Newport and then someone proposed one great game
for a finish.

AFTER THE RACE 57

The piano had stopped ; Villona must have gone
up on deck. It was a terrible game. They stopped
just before the end of it to drink for luck. Jimmy
understood that the game lay between Routh and
Segouin. What excitement! Jimmy was excited
too ; he would lose, of course. How much had he
written away ? The men rose to their feet to play
the last tricks, talking and gesticulating. Routh
won. The cabin shook with the young men's
cheering and the cards were bundled together.
They began then to gather in what they had won.
Farley and Jimmy were the heaviest losers.

He knew that he would regret in the morning but
at present he was glad of the rest, glad of the dark
stupor that would cover up his folly. He leaned his
elbows on the table and rested his head between his
hands, counting the beats of his temples. The cabin
door opened and he saw the Hungarian standing in a
shaft of grey light :

' Daybreak, gentlemen ! '

TWO GALLANTS

The grey warm evening of August had descended
upon the city and a mild warm air, a memory of
summer, circulated in the streets. The streets,
shuttered for the repose of Sunday, swarmed with
a gaily coloured crowd. Like illumined pearls the
lamps shone from the summits of their tall poles upon
the living texture below which, changing shape and
hue unceasingly, sent up into the warm grey evening
air an unchanging unceasing murmur.

Two young men came down the hill of Rutland
Square. One of them was just bringing a long
monologue to a close. The other, who walked on the
verge of the path and was at times obliged to step
on to the road, owing to his companion's rudeness,
wore an aimused listening face. He was squat and
ruddy. A yachting cap was shoved far back from
his forehead and the narrative to which he Hstened
made constant waves of expression break forth
over his face from the corners of his nose and eyes
andmouth. Little jets of wheezing laughter followed
one another out of his convulsed body. His eyes,
twinkling with cunning enjoyment, glanced at every
moment towards his companion's face. Once or
twice he rearranged the light waterproof which he
had slung over one shoulder in toreador fashion.

58

TWO GALLANTS 59

His breeches, his white rubber shoes and his jauntily
slung waterproof expressed youth. But his figure
fell into rotundity at the waist, his hair was scant and
grey and his face, when the waves of expression had
passed over it, had a ravaged look.

When he was quite sure that the narrative had
ended he laughed noiselessly for fully half a minute.
Then he said :

' Well ! . . . That takes the biscuit ! '

His voice seemed winnowed of vigour ; and to
enforce his words he added with humour :

' That takes the solitary, unique, and, if I may
so call it, recherche biscuit 1 '

He became serious and silent when he had said this.
His tongue was tired for he had been talking all the
afternoon in a public-house in Dorset Street. Most
people considered Lenehan a leech but, in spite of
this reputation, his adroitness and eloquence had
always prevented his friends from forming any general
policy against him. He had a brave manner of
coming up to a party of them in a bar and of holding
himself nimbly at the borders of the company until
he was included in a round. He was a sporting
vagrant armed with a vast stock of stories, limericks
and riddles. He was insensitive to all kinds of dis-
courtesy. No one knew how he achieved the stern
task of living, but his name was vaguely associated
with racing tissues.

' And where did you pick her up, Corley ? ' he
asked.

Corley ran his tongue swiftly along his upper lip.

60 DUBLINERS

' One night, man,' he said, ' I was going along
Dame Street and I spotted a fine tart under Water-
house's clock and said good-night, you know. So
we went for a walk round by the canal and she told
me she was a slavey in a house in Baggot Street.
I put my arm round her and squeezed her a bit
that night. Then next Sunday, man, I met her
by appointment. We went out to Donny brook and I
brought her into a field there. She told me she used
to go with a dairyman. ... It was fine, man.
Cigarettes every night she'd bring me and paying the
tram out and back. And one night she brought me
two bloody fine cigars — O, the real cheese, you know,
that the old fellow used to smoke. ... I was afraid,
man, she'd get in the family way. But she's up to
the dodge. '

' Maybe she thinks you'll marry her,' said Lenehan.

' I told her I was out of a job,' said Corley. * I
told her I was in Pim's. She doesn't know my name.
I was too hairy to tell her that. But she thinks I'm
a bit of class, you know.'

Lenehan laughed again, noiselessly.

' Of all the good ones ever I heard,' he said, ' that
emphatically takes the biscuit.'

Corley's stride acknowledged the compliment.
The swing of his burly body made his friend execute
a few light skips from the path to the roadway and
back again. Corley was the son of an inspector of
police and he had inherited his father's frame and
gait. He walked with his hands by his sides, holding
himself erect and swaying his head from side to side.

TWO GALLANTS 61

His head was large, globular and oily ; it sweated in
all weathers ; and his large round hat, set upon it
sideways, looked like a bulb which had grown out of
another. He always stared straight before him as if
he were on parade and, when he wished to gaze after
someone in the street, it was necessary for him to
move his body from the hips. At present he was
about town. Whenever any job was vacant a friend
was always ready to give him the hard word. He
was often to be seen walking with policemen in plain
clothes, talking earnestly. He knew the inner side of
all affairs and was fond of delivering final judgments.
He spoke without listening to the speech of his com-
panions. His conversation was mainly about himself :
what he had said to such a person and what such a
person had said to him and what he had said to settle
the matter. When he reported these dialogues he
aspirated the first letter of his name after the manner
of Florentines.

Lenehan offered his friend a cigarette. As the two
young men walked on through the crowd Corley
occasionally turned to smile at some of the passing
girls but Lenehan's gaze was fixed on the large faint
moon circled with a double halo. He watched
earnestly the passing of the grey web of twilight
across its face. At length he said :

' Well . . . tell me, Corley, I suppose you'll be
able to pull it off all right, eh ? '

Corley closed one eye expressively as an answer.

' Is she game for that ? * asked Lenehan dubiously.
' You can never knov/ women.'

62 DUBLINERS

' She's all right,' said Corley. ' I know the way to
get around her, man. She's a bit gone on me. '

' You're what I call a gay Lothario,' said Lenehan.
' And the proper kind of a Lothario, too ! '

A shade of mockery relieved the servility of his
manner. To save himself he had the habit of leaving
his flattery open to the interpretation of raillery.
But Corley had not a subtle mind.

' There's nothing to touch a good slavey,' he
affirmed. ' Take my tip for it.'

' By one who has tried them all,' said Lenehan.

* First I used to go with girls, you know,' said
Corley, unbosoming ; ' girls off the South Circular.
I used to take them out, man, on the tram somewhere
and pay the tram or take them to a band or a play
at the theatre or buy them chocolate and sweets or
something that way. I used to spend money on them
right enough,' he added, in a convincing tone, as if he
were conscious of being disbelieved.

But Lenehan could well believe it ; he nodded
gravely.

' I know that game,' he said, ' and it's a mug's
game.'

' And damn the thing I ever got out of it,' said
Corley.

' Ditto here,' said Lenehan.

' Only off of one of them,' said Corley.

He moistened his upper lip by running his tongue
along it. The recollection brightened his eyes. He
too gazed at the pale disc of the moon, now nearly
veiled, and seemed to meditate.

TWO GALLANTS 68

* She was ... a bit of all right,' he said
regretfully.

He was silent again. Then he added :

' She's on the turf now. I saw her driving down
Earl Street one night with two fellows with her on a
car.'

' I suppose that's your doing,' said Lenehan.

' There was others at her before me,' said Corley
philosophically.

This time Lenehan was inclined to disbelieve. He
shook his head to and fro and smiled.

' You know you can't kid me, Corley,' he said.

' Honest to God ! ' said Corley. ' Didn't she tell
me herself ? '

Lenehan made a tragic gesture.

* Base betrayer ! ' he said.

As they passed along the railings of Trinity College,
Lenehan skipped out into the road and peered up at
the clock.

' Twenty after,' he said.

* Time enough,' said Corley. ' She'll be there all
right. I always let her wait a bit.'

Lenehan laughed quietly.

' Ecod ! Corley, you know how to take them,' he
said.

' I'm up to all their little tricks,' Corley confessed.

' But tell me,' said Lenehan again, ' are you sure
you can bring it off all right? You know it's a
ticklish job. They're damn close on that point.
Eh ? . . . What ? '

His bright, small eyes searched his companion's

64 DUBLINERS

face for reassurance. Corley swung his head to and
fro as if to toss aside an insistent insect, and his
brows gathered.

' I'll pull it off,' he said. ' Leave it to me, can't
you?'

Lenehan said no more. He did not wish to ruffle
his friend's temper, to be sent to the devil and told
that his advice was not wanted. A little tact was
necessary. But Corley' s brow was soon smooth again.
His thoughts were running another way.

' She's a fine decent tart,' he said, with
appreciation ; ' that's what she is.'

They walked along Nassau Street and then turned
into Kildare Street. Not far from the porch of the
club a harpist stood in the roadway, playing to a little
ring of listeners. He plucked at the wires heedlessly,
glancing quickly from time to time at the face of each
new-comer and from time to time, wearily also, at the
sky. His harp too, heedless that her coverings had
fallen about her knees, seemed weary alike of the eyes
of strangers and of her master's hands. One hand
played in the bass the melody of Silent, O Moyle,
while the other hand careered in the treble after each
group of notes. The notes of the air sounded deep
and full.

The two young men walked up the street without
speaking, the mournful music following them. When
they reached Stephen's Green they crossed the road.
Here the noise of trams, the lights and the crowd
released them from their silence.

' There she is ! ' said Corley.

TWO GALLANTS 65

At the comer of Hume Street a young woman
was standing. She wore a blue dress and a white
sailor hat. She stood on the curbstone, swinging
a sunshade in one hand. Lenehan grew lively.

' Let's have a look at her, Corley,' he said.

Corley glanced sideways at his friend and an
unpleasant grin appeared on his face.

' Are you trying to get inside me ? ' he asked.

' Damn it ! ' said Lenehan boldly, * I don't want an
introduction. All I want is to have a look at her.
I'm not going to eat her.'

' O . . . A look at her ? ' said Corley, more
amiably. ' Well . . . I'll tell you what. I'll go
over and talk to her and you can pass by.'

' Right ! ' said Lenehan.

Corley had already thrown one leg over the chains
when Lenehan called out :

' And after ? Where will we meet ? '

' Half ten,' answered Corley, bringing over his
other leg.

' \YheTe ? '

' Corner of Merrion Street. We'll be coming
back.'

' Work it all right now,' said Lenehan in farewell.

Corley did not answer. He sauntered across the
road swaying his head from side to side. His bulk,
his easy pace, and the solid sound of his boots had
something of the conqueror in them. He approached
the young woman and, without saluting, began at
once to converse with her. She swung her umbrella
more quickly and executed half turns on her heels.

£

66 DUBLINERS

Once or twice when he spoke to her at close quarters
she laughed and bent her head.

Lenehan observed them for a few minutes. Then
he walked rapidly along beside the chains at some
distance and crossed the road obliquely. As he
approached Hume Street comer he found the air
heavily scented and his eyes made a swift anxious
scrutiny of the young woman's appearance. She
had her Sunday finery on. Her blue serge skirt was
held at the waist by a belt of black leather. The
great silver buckle of her belt seemed to depress the
centre of her body, catching the light stuff of her
white blouse like a clip. She wore a short black
jacket with mother-of-pearl buttons and a ragged
black boa. The ends of her tulle collarette had been
carefully disordered and a big bunch of red flowers
was pinned in her bosom, stems upwards. Lenehan's
eyes noted approvingly her stout short muscular body.
Frank rude health glowed in her face, on her fat red
cheeks and in her unabashed blue eyes. Her features
were blunt. She had broad nostrils, a straggling
mouth which lay open in a contented leer, and two
projecting front teeth. As he passed Lenehan took
off his cap and, after about ten seconds, Corley
returned a salute to the air. This he did by raising
his hand vaguely and pensively changing the angle
of position of his hat.

Lenehan walked as far as the Shelbourne Hotel
where he halted and waited. After waiting for a
little time he saw them coming towards him and,
when they turned to the right, he followed them,

TWO GALLANTS 67

stepping lightly in his white shoes, down one side of
Merrion Square. As he walked on slowly, timing
his pace to theirs, he watched Corley's head which
turned at every moment towards the young woman's
face like a big ball revolving on a pivot. He kept the
pair in view until he had seen them climbing the stairs
of the Donny brook tram ; then he turned about and
went back the way he had come.

Now that he was alone his face looked older. His
gaiety seemed to forsake him, and, as he came by the
railings of the Duke's Lawn, he allowed his hand
to run along them. The air which the harpist had
played began to control his movements. His softly
padded feet played the melody while his fingers swept
a scale of variations idly along the railings after each
group of notes.

He walked listlessly round Stephen's Green and
then down Grafton Street. Though his eyes took
note of many elements of the crowd through which
he passed they did so morosely. He found trivial
all that was meant to charm him and did not answer
the glances which invited him to be bold. He knew
that he would have to speak a great deal, to invent
and to amuse, and his brain and throat were too dry
for such a task. The problem of how he could pass
the hours till he met Corley again troubled him a
little. He could think of no way of passing them but
to keep on walking. He turned to the left when he
came to the corner of Rutland Square and felt more at
ease in the dark quiet street, the sombre look of which
suited his mood. He paused at last before the

68 DUBLINERS

window of a poor-looking shop over which the words
Refreshment Bar were printed in white letters. On
the glass of the window were two flying inscriptions :
Ginger Beer and Ginger Ale. A cut ham was exposed
on a great blue dish while near it on a plate lay a
segment of very light plum-pudding. He eyed this
food earnestly for some time and then, after glancing
warily up and down the street, went into the shop
quickly.

He was hungry for, except some biscuits which
he had asked two grudging curates to bring him,
he had eaten nothing since breakfast-time. He sat
down at an uncovered wooden table opposite two
work-girls and a mechanic. A slatternly girl waited
on him.

' How much is a plate of peas ? ' he asked.

' Three halfpence, sir,' said the girl.

' Bring me a plate of peas,' he said, ' and a bottle
of ginger beer.'

He spoke roughly in order to belie his air of
gentility for his entry had been followed by a pause
of talk. His face was heated. To appear natural
he pushed his cap back on his head and planted his
elbows on the table. The mechanic and the two
work-girls examined him point by point before
resuming their conversation in a subdued voice.
The girl brought him a plate of grocer's hot peas,
seasoned with pepper and vinegar, a fork and his
ginger beer. He ate his food greedily and found it
so good that he made a note of the shop mentally.
When he had eaten all the peas he sipped his ginger

TWO GALLANTS 69

beer and sat for some time thinking of Corley's
adventure. In his imagination he beheld the pair
of lovers walking along some dark road ; he heard
Corley's voice in deep energetic gallantries and saw
again the leer of the young woman's mouth. This
vision made him feel keenly his own poverty of purse
and spirit. He was tired of knocking about, of pull-
ing the devil by the tail, of shifts and intrigues. He
would be thirty-one in November. Would he never
get a good job ? Would he never have a home of his
own ? He thought how pleasant it would be to have
a warm fire to sit by and a good dinner to sit down to.
He had walked the streets long enough with friends
and with girls. He knew what those friends were
worth : he knew the girls too. Experience had
embittered his heart against the world. But all
hope had not left him. He felt better after having
eaten than he had felt before, less weary of his life,
less vanquished in spirit. He might yet be able to
settle down in some snug corner and live happily if
he could only come across some good simple-minded
girl with a little of the ready.

He paid twopence halfpenny to the slatternly girl
and went out of the shop to begin his wandering
again. He went into Capel Street and walked along
towards the City Hall. Then he turned into Dame
Street. At the corner of George's Street he met two
friends of his and stopped to converse with them.
He was glad that he could rest from all his walking.
His friends asked him had he seen Corley and what
was the latest. He replied that he had spent the day

70 DUBLINERS

with Corley. His friends talked very little. They
looked vacantly after some figures in the crowd and
sometimes made a critical remark. One said that he
had seen Mac an hour before in Westmoreland Street.
At this Lenehan said that he had been with Mac the
night before in Egan's. The young man who had
seen Mac in Westmoreland Street asked was it true
that Mac had won a bit over a billiard match.
Lenehan did not know : he said that Holohan had
stood them drinks in Egan's.

He left his friends at a quarter to ten and went up
George's Street. He turned to the left at the City
Markets and walked on into Grafton Street. The
crowd of girls and young men had thinned and on his
way up the street he heard many groups and couples
bidding one another good-night. He went as far as
the clock of the College of Surgeons : it was on the
stroke of ten. He set off briskly along the northern
side of the Green, hurrying for fear Corley should
return too soon. When he reached the corner of
Merrion Street he took his stand in the shadow of a
lamp and brought out one of the cigarettes which he
had reserved and lit it. He leaned against the lamp-
post and kept his gaze fixed on the part from which he
expected to see Corley and the young woman return.

His mind became active again. He wondered had
Corley managed it successfully. He wondered if he
had asked her yet or if he would leave it to the last.
He suffered all the pangs and thrills of his friend's
situation as well as those of his own. But the memory
of Corley' s slowly revolving head calmed him some-

TWO GALLANTS 71

what : he was sure Corley would pull it off all right.
All at once the idea struck him that perhaps Corley
had seen her home by another way and given him the
slip. His eyes searched the street : there was no
sign of them. Yet it was surely half-an-hour since
he had seen the clock of the College of Surgeons.
Would Corley do a thing like that ? He lit his last
cigarette and began to smoke it nervously. He
strained his eyes as each tram stopped at the far
comer of the square. They must have gone home
by another way. The paper of his cigarette broke
and he flung it into the road with a curse.

Suddenly he saw them coming towards him. He
started with delight and, keeping close to his lamp-
post, tried to read the result in their walk. They
were walking quickly, the young woman taking
quick short steps, while Corley kept beside her with
his long stride. They did not seem to be speaking.
An intimation of the result pricked him like the
point of a sharp instrument. He knew Corley
would fail ; he knew it was no go.

They turned down Baggot Street and he followed
them at once, taking the other footpath. When they
stopped he stopped too. They talked for a few
moments and then the young woman went down the
steps into the area of a house. Corley remained
standing at the edge of the path, a little distance
from the front steps. Some minutes passed. Then
the hall-door was opened slowly and cautiously.
A woman came running down the front steps and
coughed. Corley turned and went towards her.

72 DUBLINERS

His broad figure hid hers from view for a few seconds
and then she reappeared running up the steps. The
door closed on her and Corley began to walk swiftly
towards Stephen's Green.

Lenehan hurried on in the same direction. Some
drops of light rain fell. He took them as a warning
and, glancing back towards the house which the
young woman had entered to see that he was not
observed, he ran eagerly across the road. Anxiety
and his swift rim made him pant. He called out :
' Hallo, Corley ! '

Corley turned his head to see who had called him,
and then continued walking as before. Lenehan
ran after him, settling the waterproof on his
shoulders with one hand.

' Hallo, Corley ! ' he cried again.
He came level with his friend and looked keenly
in his face. He could see nothing there.
'Well?' he said. ' Did it come off ? '
They had reached the corner of Ely Place. Still
without answering Corley swerved to the left and
went up the side street. His features were composed
in stern calm. Lenehan kept up with his friend,
breathing uneasily. He was baffled and a note of
menace pierced through his voice.

' Can't you tell us ? ' he said. * Did you try her ? '
Corley halted at the first lamp and stared grimly
before him. Then with a grave gesture he extended
a hand towards the light and, smiling, opened it
slowly to the gaze of his disciple. A small gold coin
shone in the palm.

THE BOARDING HOUSE

Mrs Mooney was a butcher's daughter. She was a
\vbman who was quite able to keep things to herself :
a determined woman. She had married her father's
foreman and opened a butcher's shop near Spring
Gardens. But as soon as his father-in-law was dead
Mr Mooney began to go to the devil. He drank,
plundered the till, ran headlong into debt. It was
no use making him take the pledge : he was sure to
break out again a few days after. By fighting his
wife in the presence of customers and by buying bad
meat he ruined his business. One night he went for
his wife with the cleaver and she had to sleep in a
neighbour's house.

After that they lived apart. She went to the priest
and got a separation from him with care of the
children. She would give him neither money nor
food nor house-room ; and so he was obliged to enlist
himself as a sheriff's man. He was a shabby stooped
little drunkard with a white face and a white
moustache and white eyebrows, pencilled above
his little eyes, which were pink- veined and raw ;
and all day long he sat in the bailiff's room, waiting
to be put on a job. Mrs Mooney, who had taken
what remained of her money out of the butcher
business and set up a boarding-house in Hardwicke
Street, was a big imposing woman. Her house had a
73

74 DUBLINERS

floating population made up of tourists from Liver-
pool and the Isle of Man and, occasionally, artistes
from the music halls. Its resident population was
made up of clerks from the city. She governed the
house cunningly and firmly, knew when to give
credit, when to be stern and when to let things
pass. All the resident young men spoke of her
as The Madam.

Mrs Mooney's young men paid fifteen shillings
a week for board and lodgings (beer or stout at
dinner excluded). They shared in common tastes
and occupations and for this reason they were very
chummy with one another. They discussed with
one another the chances of favourites and outsiders.
Jack Mooney, the Madam's son, who was clerk to a
commission agent in Fleet Street, had the reputation
of being a hard case. He was fond of using soldiers'
obscenities : usually he came home in the small
hours. When he met his friends he had always a
good one to tell them and he was always sure to
be on to a good thing — that is to say, a likely horse
or a likely artiste. He was also handy with the mits
and sang comic songs. On Sunday nights there
would often be a reunion in Mrs Mooney 's front
drawing-room. The music-hall artistes would oblige ;
and Sheridan played waltzes and polkas and vamped
accompaniments. Polly Mooney, the Madam's
daughter, would also sing. She sang :

* Jhn a . . . naughty girl.
You neednft shajn :
You know I a7n}

THE BOARDING HOUSE 75

Polly was a slim girl of nineteen ; she had light soft
hair and a small full mouth. Her eyes, which were
grey with a shade of green through them, had a habit
of glancing upwards when she spoke with anyone,
which made her look like a little perverse madonna.
Mrs Mooney had first sent her daughter to be a typist
in a corn-factor's office but, as a disreputable sheriff's
man used to come every other day to the office, asking
to be allowed to say a word to his daughter, she had
taken her daughter home again and set her to do
housework. As Polly was very lively the intention
was to give her the run of the young men. Besides,
young men like to feel that there is a young woman
not very far away. Polly, of course, flirted with the
young men but Mrs Mooney, who was a shrewd judge,
knew that the young men were only passing the time
away : none of them meant business. Things went
on so for a long time and Mrs Mooney began to think
of sending Polly back to typewriting when she
noticed that something was going on between Polly
and one of the young men. She watched the pair
and kept her own counsel.

Polly knew that she was being watched, but still
her mother's persistent silence could not be mis-
understood. There had been no open complicity
between mother and daughter, no open understanding
but, though people in the house began to talk of the
affair, still Mrs Mooney did not intervene. Polly
began to grow a little strange in her manner and the
young man was evidently perturbed. At last, when
she judged it to be the right moment, Mrs Mooney

76 DUBLINERS

intervened. She dealt with moral problems as a
cleaver deals with meat : and in this case she had
made up her mind.

It was a bright Sunday morning of early summer,
promising heat, but with a fresh breeze blowing.
All the windows of the boarding house were open and
the lace curtains ballooned gently towards the street
beneath the raised sashes. The belfry of George's
Church sent out constant peals and worshippers,
singly or in groups, traversed the little circus before
the church, revealing their purpose by their self-
contained demeanour no less than by the little
volumes in their gloved hands. Breakfast was over
in the boarding house and the table of the breakfast-
room was covered with plates on which lay yellow
streaks of eggs with morsels of bacon-fat and bacon-
rind. Mrs Mooney sat in the straw arm-chair and
watched the servant Mary remove the breakfast
things. She made Mary collect the crusts and pieces
of broken bread to help to make Tuesday's bread-
pudding. When the table was cleared, the broken
bread collected, the sugar and butter safe under lock
and key, she began to reconstruct the interview which
she had had the night before with Polly. Things were
as she had suspected : she had been frank in her
questions and Polly had been frank in her answers.
Both had been somewhat awkward, of course. She
had been made awkward by her not wishing to receive
the news in too cavalier a fashion or to seem to have
connived and Polly had been made awkward not
merely because allusions of that kind always made

THE BOARDING HOUSE 77

her awkward but also because she did not wish it to
be thought that in her wise innocence she had divined
the intention behind her mother's tolerance.

Mrs IMooney glanced instinctively at the little
gilt clock on the mantelpiece as soon as she had
become aware through her revery that the bells of
George's Church had stopped ringing. It was
seventeen minutes past eleven : she would have lots
of time to have the matter out with Mr Doran and
then catch short twelve at Marlborough Street.
She was sure she would win. To begin with she had
all the weight of social opinion on her side : she was
an outraged mother. She had allowed him to live
beneath her roof, assuming that he was a man of
honour, and he had simply abused her hospitality.
He was thirty-four or thirty-five years of age, so that
youth could not be pleaded as his excuse ; nor could
ignorance be his excuse since he was a man who
had seen something of the world. He had simply
taken advantage of Polly's youth and inexperience :
that was evident. The question was : What
reparation would he make ?

There must be reparation made in such case. It
is all very well for the man : he can go his ways as
if nothing had happened, having had his moment of
pleasure, but the girl has to bear the brunt. Some
mothers would be content to patch up such an affair
for a sum of money ; she had known cases of it. But
she would not do so. For her only one reparation
could make up for the loss of her daughter's honour :
marriage.

78 DUBLINERS

She counted all her cards again before sending Mary
up to Mr Doran's room to say that she wished to speak
with him. She felt sure she would win. He was
a serious young man, not rakish or loud-voiced like
the others. If it had been Mr Sheridan or Mr Meade
or Bantam Lyons her task would have been much
harder. She did not think he would face publicity.
All the lodgers in the house knew something of the
affair ; details had been invented by some. Besides,
he had been employed for thirteen years in a great
Catholic wine-merchant's office and publicity would
mean for him, perhaps, the loss of his job. Whereas
if he agreed all might be well. She knew he had a
good screw for one thing and she suspected he had
a bit of stuff put by.

Nearly the half -hour ! She stood up and surveyed
herself in the pier-glass. The decisive expression of
her great florid face satisfied her and she thought of
some mothers she knew who could not get their
daughters off their hands.

Mr Doran was very anxious indeed this Sunday
morning. He had made two attempts to shave but
his hand had been so unsteady that he had been
obliged to desist. Three days' reddish beard fringed
his jaws and every two or three minutes a mist
gathered on his glasses so that he had to take them
off and polish them with his pocket-handkerchief.
The recollection of his confession of the night before
was a cause of acute pain to him ; the priest had
drawn out every ridiculous detail of the affair and in
the end had so magnified his sin that he was ahnost

THE BOARDING HOUSE 79

thankful at being afforded a loophole of reparation.
The harm was done. What could he do now but
marry her or run away ? He could not brazen it out.
The affair would be sure to be talked of and his
employer would be certain to hear of it. Dublin
is such a small city : everyone knows everyone else's
business. He felt his heart leap warmly in his throat
as he heard in his excited imagination old Mr Leonard
calling out in his rasping voice : ' Send Mr Doran
here, please.'

All his long years of service gone for nothing !
All his industry and diligence thrown away ! As a
young man he had sown his wild oats, of course ; he
had boasted of his free-thinking and denied the
existence of God to his companions in public-houses.
But that was all passed and done with . . . nearly.
He still bought a copy of Reynolds's Newspaper every
week but he attended to his religious duties and for
nine-tenths of the year lived a regular life. He had
money enough to settle down on ; it was not that.
But the family would look down on her. First of
all tliere was her disreputable father and then her
mother's boarding house was beginning to get a
certain fame. He had a notion that he was being had.
He could imagine his friends talking of the affair and
laughing. She was a little vulgar ; sometimes she
said ' I seen ' and ' If I had've known.' But what
would grammar matter if he really loved her ? He
could not make up his mind whether to like her or
despise her for what she had done. Of course, he
had done it too. His instinct urged him to remain

80 DUBLINERS

free, not to marry. Once you are married you are
done for, it said.

While he was sitting helplessly on the side of the
bed in shirt and trousers she tapped lightly at his door
and entered. She told him all, that she had made
a clean breast of it to her mother and that her mother
would speak with him that morning. She cried and
threw her arms round his neck, saying :

' O, Bob ! Bob ! What am I to do ? What am
I to do at all ? '

She would put an end to herself, she said.

He comforted her feebly, telling her not to cry,
that it would be all right, never fear. He felt against
his shirt the agitation of her bosom.

It was not altogether his fault that it had happened.
He remembered well, with the curious patient memory
of the celibate, the first casual caresses her dress, her
breath, her fingers had given him. Then late one
night as he was undressing for bed she had tapped at
his door, timidly. She wanted to relight her candle
at his for hers had been blown out by a gust. It
was her bath night. She wore a loose open combing-
jacket of printed flannel. Her white instep slione
in the opening of her furry slippers and the blood
glowed warmly behind her perfumed skin. From her
hands and wrists too as she lit and steadied her candle
a faint perfume arose.

On nights when he came in very late it was she
who warmed up his dinner. He scarcely knew what
he was eating, feeling her beside him alone, at night,
in the sleeping house. And her thoughtfulness !

THE BOARDING HOUSE 81

If the night was anyway cold or wet or windy there
was sure to be a little tumbler of punch ready for him.
Perhaps they could be happy together. . . .

They used to go upstairs together on tiptoe, each
with a candle, and on the third landing exchange
reluctant good-nights. They used to kiss. He
remembered well her eyes, the touch of her hand
and his delirium. . . .

But delirium passes. He echoed her phrase,
applying it to himself : * What am I to do?"* The
instinct of the celibate warned him to hold back.
But the sin was there ; even his sense of honour
told him that reparation must be made for such
a sin.

While he was sitting with her on the side of the bed
Mary came to the door and said that the missus
wanted to see him in the parlour. He stood up to
put on his coat and waistcoat, more helpless than
ever. When he was dressed he went over to her to
comfort her. It would be all right, never fear. He
left her crying on the bed and moaning softly :
'0 my God!'

Going down the stairs his glasses became so dimmed
with moisture that he had to take them off and polish
them. He longed to ascend through the roof and fly
away to another country where he would never hear
again of his trouble, and yet a force pushed him
downstairs step by step. The implacable faces of his
employer and of the Madam stared upon his dis-
comfiture. On the last flight of stairs he passed Jack
Mooney who was coming up from the pantry nursing

82 DUBLINERS

two bottles of Bass. They saluted coldly ; and the
lover's eyes rested for a second or two on a thick
bulldog face and a pair of thick short arms. When
he reached the foot of the staircase he glanced up
and saw Jack regarding him from the door of the
return-room.

Suddenly he remembered the night when one of
the music-hall artistes, a little blond Londoner, had
made a rather free allusion to Polly. The reunion
had been almost broken up on account of Jack's
violence. Everyone tried to quiet him. The
music-hall artiste, a little paler than usual, kept
smiling and saying that there was no harm meant :
but Jack kept shouting at him that if any fellow
tried that sort of a game on with his sister he'd
bloody well put his teeth down his throat, so he
would.

Polly sat for a Httle time on the side of the bed,
crying. Then she dried her eyes and wenv over to
the looking-glass. She dipped the end of the towel
in the water-jug and refreshed her eyes with the cool
water. She looked at herself in profile and re-
adjusted a hairpin above her ear. Then she went
back to the bed again and sat at the foot. She
regarded the pillows for a long time and the sight of
them awakened in her mind secret amiable memories.
She rested the nape of her neck against the cool iron
bed-rail and fell into a revery. There was no longer
any perturbation visible on her face.

She waited on patiently, almost cheerfully.

THE BOARDING HOUSE 83

without alarm, her memories gradually giving place
to hopes and visions of the future. Her hopes and
visions were so intricate that she no longer saw the
white pillows on which her gaze was fixed or re-
membered that she was waiting for anything.

At last she heard her mother calling. She started
to her feet and ran to the banisters.

'Polly! Polly I*

' Yes, mamma ? '

' Come down, dear. Mr Doran wants to speak to
you.'

Then she remembered what she had been waiting
for.

A LITTLE CLOUD

Eight years before he had seen his friend off at the
North Wall and wished him godspeed. Gallaher had
got on. You could tell that at once by his travelled
air, his well-cut tweed suit, and fearless accent.
Few fellows had talents like his and fewer still could
remain unspoiled by such success. Gallaher' s heart
was in the right place and he had deserved to win.
It was something to have a friend Uke that.

Little Chandler's thoughts ever since lunch-time
had been of his meeting with Gallaher, of Gallaher's
invitation and of the great city London where
Gallaher lived. He was called Little Chandler be-
cause, though he was but slightly under the average
stature, he gave one the idea of being a little man.
His hands were white and small, his frame was fragile,
his voice was quiet and his manners were refined.
He took the greatest care of his fair silken hair and
moustache and used perfume discreetly on his hand-
kerchief. The half -moons of his nails were perfect
and when he smiled you caught a glimpse of a row of
childish white teeth.

As he sat at his desk in the King's Inns he thought
what changes those eight years had brought. The
friend whom he had known under a shabby and
necessitous guise had become a brilliant figure on the

84

A LITTLE CLOUD 85

London Press. He turned often from his tiresome
writing to gaze out of the office window. The glow
of a late autumn sunset covered the grass plots and
walks. It cast a shower of kindly golden dust on the
untidy nurses and decrepit old men who drowsed on
the benches ; it flickered upon all the moving figures
— on the children who ran screaming along the gravel
paths and on everyone who passed through the
gardens. He watched the scene and thought of life ;
and (as always happened when he thought of life) he
became sad. A gentle melancholy took possession
of him. He felt how useless it was to struggle against
fortune, this being the burden of wisdom which the
ages had bequeathed to him.

He remembered the books of poetry upon his
shelves at home. He had bought them in his bachelor
days and many an evening, as he sat in the little
room off the hall, he had been tempted to take one
down from the bookshelf and read out something to
his wife. But shyness had always held him back ; and
so the books had remained on their shelves. At times
he repeated lines to himself and this consoled him.

When his hour had struck he stood up and took
leave of his desk and of his fellow-clerks punctiliously.
He emerged from under the feudal arch of the King's
Inns, a neat modest figure, and walked swiftly down
Henrietta Street. The golden sunset was waning
and the air had grown sharp. A horde of grimy
children populated the street. They stood or ran
in the roadway or crawled up the steps before
the gaping doors or squatted like mice upon the

86 DUBLINERS

thresholds. Little Chandler gave them no thought.
He picked his way deftly through all that minute
vermin-like life and under the shadow of the gaunt
spectral mansions in which the old nobility of
Dublin had roystered. No memory of the past
touched him, for his mind was full of a present joy.

He had never been in Corless's but he knew the
value of the name. He knew that people went there
after the theatre to eat oysters and drink liqueurs ;
and he had heard that the waiters there spoke French
and German. Walking swiftly by at night he had
seen cabs drawn up before the door and richly dressed
ladies, escorted by cavaliers, alight and enter quickly.
They wore noisy dresses and many wraps. Their
faces were powdered and they caught up their
dresses, when they touched earth, like alarmed
Atalantas. He had always passed without turning
his head to look. It was his habit to walk swiftly
in the street even by day and whenever he found
himself in the city late at night he hurried on his way
apprehensively and excitedly. Sometimes, however,
he courted the causes of his fear. He chose the
darkest and narrowest streets and, as he walked
boldly forward, the silence that was spread about his
footsteps troubled him, the wandering silent figures
troubled him ; and at times a sound of low fugitive
laughter made him tremble like a leaf.

He turned to the right towards Capel Street.
Ignatius Gallaher on the London Press ! Who
would have thought it possible eight years before ?
Still, now that he reviewed the past, Little Chandler

I

A LITTLE CLOUD 87

could remember many signs of future greatness in his
friend. People used to say that Ignatius Gallaher
was wild. Of course, he did mix with a rakish set
of fellows at that time, drank freely and borrowed
money on all sides. In the end he had got mixed
up in some shady affair, some money transaction : at
least, that was one version of his flight. But nobody
denied him talent. There was always a certain . . .
something in Ignatius Gallaher that impressed you
in spite of yourself. Even when he was out at elbows
and at his wits' end for money he kept up a bold face.
Little Chandler remembered (and the remembrance
brought a slight flush of pride to his cheek) one of
Ignatius Gallaher's sayings when he was in a tight
comer :

' Half time, now, boys,' he used to say light-
heartedly. ' Where's my considering cap ? '

That was Ignatius Gallaher all out ; and, damn it,
you couldn't but admire him for it.

Little Chandler quickened his pace. For the first
time in his life he felt himself superior to the people
he passed. For the first time his soul revolted
against the dull inelegance of Capel Street. There
was no doubt about it : if you wanted to succeed you
had to go away. You could do nothing in Dublin.
As he crossed Grattan Bridge he looked down the
river towards the lower quays and pitied the poor
stunted houses. They seemed to him a band of
tramps, huddled together along the river-banks, their
old coats covered with dust and soot, stupefied by
the panorama of sunset and waiting for the first chill

88 DUBLINERS

of night to bid them arise, shake themselves and
begone. He wondered whether he could write a
poem to express his idea. Perhaps Gallaher might
be able to get it into some London paper for him.
Could he write something original ? He was not
sure what idea he wished to express but the thought
that a poetic moment had touched him took life within
him like an infant hope. He stepped onward bravely.
Every step brought him nearer to London, farther
from his own sober inartistic life. A light began to
tremble on the horizon of his mind. He was not so
old — thirty-two. His temperament might be said
to be just at the point of maturity. There were so
many different moods and impressions that he wished
to express in verse. He felt them within him. He
tried to weigh his soul to see if it was a poet's soul.
Melancholy was the dominant note of his tempera-
ment, he thought, but it was a melancholy tempered
by recurrences of faith and resignation and simple
joy. If he could give expression to it in a book of
poems perhaps men would listen. He would never
be popular : he saw that. He could not sway the
crowd but he might appeal to a little circle of kindred
minds. The English critics, perhaps, would recognise
him as one of the Celtic school by reason of the
melancholy tone of his poems ; besides that, he
would put in allusions. He began to invent sentences
and phrases from the notice which his book would get.
* Mr Chandler has the gift of easy and graceful verse. ' . . .
*A wistful sadness pervades these poems.^ . . . 'The
Celtic note.' It was a pity his name was not more

A LITTLE CLOUD 89

Irish-looking. Perhaps it would be better to insert
his mother's name before the surname: Thomas
Malone Chandler, or better still : T. Malone Chandler.
He would speak to Gallaher about it.

He pursued his revery so ardently that he passed
his street and had to turn back. As he came near
Corless's his former agitation began to overmaster
him and he halted before the door in indecision.
Finally he opened the door and entered.

The light and noise of the bar held him at the
doorways for a few moments. He looked about him,
but his sight was confused by the shining of many
red and green wine-glasses. The bar seemed to him
to be full of people and he felt that the people were
observing him curiously. He glanced quickly to
right and left (frowning slightly to make his errand
appear serious), but when his sight cleared a little he
saw that nobody had turned to look at him : and
there, sure enough, was Ignatius Gallaher leaning
with his back against the counter and his feet planted
far apart.

' Hallo, Tommy, old hero, here you are ! What is
it to be ? What will you have ? I'm taking whisky :
better stuff than we get across the water. Soda ?
Lithia ? No mineral ? I'm the same. Spoils the
flavour. . . . Here, gar<^on, bring us two halves of
malt whisky, like a good fellow. . . . Well, and how
have you been pulling along since I saw you last ?
Dear God, how old we're getting ! Do you see any
signs of aging in me — eh, what ? A little grey and
thin on the top — what ? '

90 DUBLINERS

Ignatius Gallaher took off his hat and displayed
a large closely cropped head. His face was heavy,
pale and clean-shaven. His eyes, which were of
bluish slate-colour, relieved his unhealthy pallor and
shone out plainly above the vivid orange tie he wore.
Between these rival features the lips appeared very
long and shapeless and colourless. He bent his head
and felt with two sympathetic fingers the thin hair
at the crown. Little Chandler shook his head as
a denial. Ignatius Gallaher put on his hat again.

' It pulls you down,' he said, 'Press life. Always
hurry and scurry, looking for copy and sometimes
not finding it : and then, always to have something
new in your stuff. Damn proofs and printers, I say,
for a few days. I'm deuced glad, I can tell you, to
get back to the old country. Does a fellow good,
a bit of a holiday. I feel a ton better since I landed
again in dear dirty Dublin. . . . Here you are,
Tommy. Water ? Say when.'

Little Chandler allowed his whisky to be very
much diluted.

" You don't know what's good for you, my boy,'
said Ignatius Gallaher. 'I drink mine neat.'

' I drink very little as a rule,' said Little Chandler
modestly. ' An odd half -one or so when I meet any
of the old crowd : that's all'

'Ah, well,' said Ignatius Gallaher, cheerfully,
' here's to us and to old times and old acquaint-
ance.'

They clinked glasses and drank the toast.

' I met some of the old gang to-day,' said Ignatius

A LITTLE CLOUD 91

Gallaher. ' O'Hara seems to be in a bad way.
What's he doing ? '

'Nothing,' said Little Chandler. 'He's gone to
the dogs.'

' But Hogan has a good sit, hasn't he ? '

' Yes ; he's in the Land Commission.'

' I met him one night in London and he seemed
to be very flush. . . . Poor O'Hara ! Boose, I
suppose ? '

' Other things, too,' said Little Chandler shortly.

Ignatius Gallaher laughed.

' Tommy,' he said, ' I see you haven't changed an
atom. You're the very same serious person that
used to lecture me on Sunday mornings when I had
a sore head and a fur on my tongue. You'd want
to knock about a bit in the world. Have you never
been anywhere, even for a trip ? '

' I've been to the Isle of Man,' said Little Chandler.

Ignatius Gallaher laughed.

' The Isle of Man ! ' he said. ' Go to London
or Paris : Paris, for choice. That'd do you good.'

' Have you seen Paris ? '

' I should think I have ! I've knocked about
there a little.'

* And is it really so beautiful as they say ? ' asked
Little Chandler.

He sipped a little of his drink while Ignatius
Gallaher finished his boldly.

' Beautiful ? ' said Ignatius Gallaher, pausing on
the word and on the flavour of his drink. ' It's not
so beautiful, you know. Of course, it is beautiful. . . ,

92 DUBLINERS

But it's the life of Paris; that's the thing. Ah,
there's no city hke Paris for gaiety, movement,
excitement. ..."

Little Chandler finished his whisky and, after some
trouble, succeeded in catching the barman's eye.
He ordered the same again.

' I've been to the Moulin Rouge,' Ignatius
Gallaher continued when the barman had removed
their glasses, ' and I've been to all the Bohemian
cafes. Hot stuff ! Not for a pious chap like you.
Tommy.'

Little Chandler said nothing until the barman
returned with the two glasses : then he touched his
friend's glass lightly and reciprocated the former
toast. He was beginning to feel somewhat disillu-
sioned. Gallaher's accent and way of expressing
himself did not please him. There was something
vulgar in his friend which he had not observed before.
But perhaps it was only the result of living in London
amid the bustle and competition of the Press. The
old personal charm was still there under this new
gaudy manner. And, after all, Gallaher had lived,
he had seen the world. Little Chandler looked at his
friend enviously.

' Everything in Paris is gay,' said Ignatius
Gallaher. ' They believe in enjoying life — and don't
you think they're right? If you want to enjoy
yourself properly you must go to Paris. And, mind
you, they've a great feeling for the Irish there.
When they heard I was from Ireland they were
ready to eat me, man.'

A LITTLE CLOUD 98

Little Chandler took four or five sips from his glass.

' Tell me,' he said, ' is it true that Paris is so . . .
immoral as they say ? '

Ignatius Gallaher made a catholic gesture with his
right arm.

' Every place is immoral,' he said. * Of course
you do find spicy bits in Paris. Go to one of the
students' balls, for instance. That's lively, if you
like, when the cocottes begin to let themselves loose.
You know what they are, I suppose ? ' ,

' I've heard of them,' said Little Chandler.

Ignatius Gallaher drank off his whisky and shook
his head.

' Ah,' he said, ' you may say what you like.
There's no woman like the Parisienne — for style, for

go.'

' Then it is an immoral city,' said Little Chandler,
with timid insistence — ' I mean, compared with
London or Dublin ? '

' London ! ' said Ignatius Gallaher. ' It's six of
one and half-a-dozen of the other. You ask Hogan,
my boy. I showed him a bit about London when
he was over there. He'd open your eye. ... I say.
Tommy, don't make punch of that whisky : liquor
up.'

' No, really. . . . '

' O, come on, another one won't do you any harm.
What is it ? The same again, I suppose ? '

'Well . . . all right'

' Francois, the same again. . . . Will you smoke,
Tommy ? '

94 DUBLINERS

Ignatius Gallaher produced his cigar-case. The
two friends Ut their cigars and puffed at them in
silence until their drinks were served.

' I'll tell you my opinion,' said Ignatius Gallaher,
emerging after some time from the clouds of smoke
in which he had taken refuge, ' it's a rum world.
Talk of immorality ! I've heard of cases — ^what
am I saying ? — I've known them : cases of . . .
immorality. . . .'

Ignatius Gallaher puffed thoughtfully at his cigar
and then, in a calm historian's tone, he proceeded to
sketch for his friend some pictures of the corruption
which was rife abroad. He summarised the vices
of many capitals and seemed incUned to award the
palm to Berlin. Some things he could not vouch
for (his friends had told him), but of others he had
had personal experience. He spared neither rank
nor caste. He revealed many of the secrets of
religious houses on the Continent and described some
of the practices which were fashionable in high society
and ended by telling, with details, a story about an
EngUsh duchess — ^a story which he knew to be tme.
Little Chandler was astonished.

' Ah, well,' said Ignatius Gallaher, ' here we are in
old jog-along Dublin where nothing is known of such
things.'

' How dull you must find it,' said Little Chandler,
* after all the other places you've seen ! '

' Well,' said Ignatius Gallaher, 'it's a relaxation
to come over here, you k;iow. And, after all, it's
the old country, as they say, isn't it ? You can't

A LITTLE CLOUD 95

elp having a certain feeling for it. That's human
nature. . . . But tell me something about yourself.
Hogan told me you had . . . tasted the joys of
connubial bliss. Two years ago, wasn't it ? '

Little Chandler blushed and smiled.

'Yes,' he said. ' I was married last May twelve
months.'

' I hope it's not too late in the day to offer my best
wishes,' said Ignatius Gallaher. ' I didn't know
your address or I'd have done so at the time.'

He extended his hand, which Little Chandler took.

' Well, Tommy,' he said, ' I wish you and yours
every joy in life, old chap, and tons of money, and
may you never die till I shoot you. And that's the
wish of a sincere friend, an old friend. You know
that?'

* I know that,' said Little Chandler.

' Any youngsters ? ' said Ignatius Gallaher.

Little Chandler blushed again.

' We have one child,' he said.

'Son or daughter ? '

'A little boy.'

Ignatius Gallaher slapped his friend sonorously
on the back.

' Bravo,' he said, ' I wouldn't doubt you, Tommy.'

Little Chandler smiled, looked confusedly at his
glass and bit his lower lip with three childishly white
front teeth.

' I hope you'll spend an evening with us,' he said,
' before you go back. My wife will be delighted to
meet you. We can have a little music and '

96 DUBLINERS

' Thanks awfully, old chap,' said Ignatius Gallaher,
' I'm sorry we didn't meet earlier. But I must leave
to-morrow night.'

' To-night, perhaps . . . ? '

' I'm awfully sorry, old man. You see I'm over
here with another fellow, clever young chap he is too,
and we arranged to go to a little card-party. Only
for that . . ."

' O, in that case. . . .'

' But who knows ? ' said Ignatius Gallaher
considerately. ' Next year I may take a little skip
over here now that I've broken the ice. It's only
a pleasure deferred.'

' Very well,' said Little Chandler, 'the next time
you come we must have an evening together. That's
agreed now, isn't it ? '

' Yes, that's agreed,' said Ignatius Gallaher. Next
year if I come, parole d' honneur.^

* And to chnch the bargain,' said Little Chandler,
' we'll just have one more now.'

Ignatius Gallaher took out a large gold watch and
looked at it.

' Is it to be the last ? ' he said. ' Because you
know, I have an a.p.'

' O, yes, positively,' said Little Chandler.

' Very well, then,' said Ignatius Gallaher, ' let us
have another one as a deoc an doruis — that's good
vernacular for a small whisky, I believe.'

Little Chandler ordered the drinks. The blush
which had risen to his face a few moments before was
establishing itself. A trifle made him blush at any

A LITTLE CLOUD 97

time : and now he felt warm and excited. Three
small whiskies had gone to his head and Gallaher's
strong cigar had confused his mind, for he was a
delicate and abstinent person. The adventure of
meeting Gallaher after eight years, of finding himself
with Gallaher in Corless's surrounded by lights and
noise, of listening to Gallaher' s stories and of sharing
for a brief space Gallaher's vagrant and triumphant
life, upset the equipoise of his sensitive nature. He
felt acutely the contrast between his own life and his
friend's, and it seemed to him unjust. Gallaher was
his inferior in birth and education. He was sure
that he could do something better than his friend
had ever done, or could ever do, something higher
than mere tawdry journalism if he only got the
chance. What was it that stood in his way ?
His unfortunate timidity ! He wished to vindicate
himself in some way, to assert his manhood. He
saw behind Gallaher's refusal of his invitation.
Gallaher was only patronising him by his friendli-
ness just as he was patronising Ireland by his
visit.

The barman brought their drinks. Little Chandler
pushed one glass towards his friend and took up the
other boldly.

' WTio knows ? ' he said, as they lifted their glasses.
' When you come next year I may have the pleasure
of wishing long life and happiness to Mr and Mrs
Ignatius Gallaher.'

Ignatius Gallaher in the act of drinking closed one
eye expressively over the rim of his glass. When he

98 DUBLINERS

had drunk he smacked his Hps decisively, set down
his glass and said :

' No blooming fear of that, my boy. I'm going
to have my fling first and see a bit of life and
the world before I put my head in the sack — ^if I
ever do.'

' Some day you will,' said Little Chandler calmly.

Ignatius Gallaher turned his orange tie and slate-
blue eyes full upon his friend.

' You think so ? ' he said.

' You'll put your head in the sack,' repeated Little
Chandler stoutly, ' like everyone else if you can find
the girl.'

He had slightly emphasised his tone and he was
aware that he had betrayed himself ; but, though the
colour had heightened in his cheek, he did not flinch
from his friend's gaze. Ignatius Gallaher watched
him for a few moments and then said:

' If ever it occurs, you may bet your bottom
dollar there'll be no mooning and spooning about it.
I mean to marry money. She'll have a good fat
account at the bank or she won't do for me.'

Little Chandler shook his head.

' Why, man alive,' said Ignatius Gallaher, ve-
hemently, ' do you know what it is ? I've only to
say the word and to-morrow I can have the woman
and the cash. You don't believe it ? Well, I know it.
There are hundreds — ^what am I saying ? — thousands
of rich Germans and Jews, rotten with money, that'd
only be too glad. . . . You wait a while, my boy.
See if I don't play my cards properly. When I go

A LITTLE CLOUD 99

about a thing I mean business, I tell you. You just
wait'

He tossed his glass to his mouth, finished his drink
and laughed loudly. Then he looked thoughtfully
before him and said in a calmer tone :

' But I'm in no hurry. They can wait. I don't
fancy tying myself up to one woman, you know.'

He imitated with his mouth the act of tasting
and made a wry face.

' Must get a bit stale, I should think,' he said.

Little Chandler sat in the room off the hall, holding
a child in his arms. To save money they kept no
servant but Annie's young sister Monica came for
an hour or so in the morning and an hour or so in the
evening to help. But Monica had gone home long
ago. It was a quarter to nine. Little Chandler had
come home late for tea and, moreover, he had for-
gotten to bring Annie home the parcel of coffee from
Bewley's. Of course she was in a bad humour and
gave him short answers. She said she would do
without any tea but when it came near the time at
which the shop at the corner closed she decided to go
out herself for a quarter of a pound of tea and two
pounds of sugar. She put the sleeping child deftly
in his arms and said :

' Here. Don't waken him.'

A httle lamp with a white china shade stood upon
the table and its light fell over a photograph which
was enclosed in a frame of crumpled horn. It was
Annie's photograph. Little Chandler looked at it,

100 DUBLINERS

pausing at the thin tight Hps. She wore the pale
blue summer blouse which he had brought her home
as a present one Saturday. It had cost him ten and
elevenpence ; but what an agony of nervousness it
had cost him ! How he had suffered that day,
waiting at the shop door until the shop was empty,
standing at the counter and trying to appear at his
ease while the girl piled ladies' blouses before him,
paying at the desk and forgetting to take up the odd
penny of his change, being called back by the cashier,
and, finally, striving to hide his blushes as he left the
shop by examining the parcel to see if it was securely
tied. When he brought the blouse home Annie kissed
him and said it was very pretty and stylish ; but
when she heard the price she threw the blouse on the
table and said it was a regular swindle to charge ten
and elevenpence for it. At first she wanted to take
it back but when she tried it on she was delighted
with it, especially with the make of the sleeves, and
kissed him and said he was very good to think of
her.

Hm ! . . .

He looked coldly into the eyes of the photograph
and they answered coldly. Certainly they were
pretty and the face itself was pretty. But he found
something mean in it. Why was it so unconscious
and lady-like ? The composure of the eyes irritated
him. They repelled him and defied him : there was
no passion in them, no rapture. He thought of what
Gallaher had said about rich Jewesses. Those dark
Oriental eyes, he thought, how full they are of passion,

A LITTLE CLOUD 101

of voluptuous longing ! . . . Why had he married
the eyes in the photograph ?

He caught himself up at the question and glanced
nervously round the room. He found something
mean in the pretty furniture which he had bought
for his house on the hire system. Annie had chosen
it herself and it reminded him of her. It too was
prim and pretty. A dull resentment against his life
awoke within him. Could he not escape from his
little house ? Was it too late for him to try to live
bravely like Gallaher ? Could he go to London ?
There was the furniture still to be paid for. If he
could only write a book and get it published, that
might open the way for him.

A volume of Byron's poems lay before him on the
table. He opened it cautiously with his left hand
lest he should waken the child and began to read the
first poem in the book ;

' Hushed are the winds and still the evening gloom^

Not ^en a Zephyr wanders through the grove^
Whilst I return to view my Margarefs t07nb
And scatter flowers on the dust I lover

He paused. He felt the rhythm of the verse about
him in the room. How melancholy it was ! Could
he, too, write like that, express the melancholy of
his soul in verse ? There were so many things he
wanted to describe : his sensation of a few hours
before on Grattan Bridge, for example. If he could
get back again into that mood. . . .

The child awoke and began to cry. He turned

102 DUBLINERS

from the page and tried to hush it : but it would not
be hushed. He began to rock it to and fro in his
arms but its wailing cry grew keener. He rocked it
faster while his eyes began to read the second stanza :

' Within this narrow cell reclines her clay,
That clay where once . . }

It was useless. He couldn't read. He couldn't
do anything. The wailing of the child pierced the
drum of his ear. It was useless, useless ! He was a
prisoner for life. His arms trembled with anger and
suddenly bending to the child's face he shouted :

' Stop ! '

The child stopped for an instant, had a spasm
of fright and began to scream. He jumped up from
his chair and walked hastily up and down the room
with the child in his arms. It began to sob piteously,
losing its breath for four or five seconds, and then
bursting out anew. The thin walls of the room echoed
the sound. He tried to soothe it but it sobbed more
convulsively. He looked at the contracted and
quivering face of the child and began to be alarmed.
He counted seven sobs without a break between them
and caught the child to his breast in fright. If it
died ! . . .

The door was burst open and a young woman ran
in, panting.

'What is it? What is it?' she cried.

The child, hearing its mother's voice, broke out
into a paroxysm of sobbing.

I

A LITTLE CLOUD 108

* It's nothing, Annie . . . it's nothing. . . . He
began to cry . . .'

She flung her parcels on the floor and snatched the
child from him.

' What have you done to him ? ' she cried, glaring
into his face.

Little Chandler sustained for one moment the gaze
of her eyes and his heart closed together as he met
the hatred in them. He began to stammer :

' It's nothing. . . . He ... he began to cry. . . .
I couldn't ... I didn't do anything. . . . What ? '

Giving no heed to him she began to walk up and
down the room, clasping the child tightly in her
arms and murmuring :

' My little man ! My little mannie ! Was 'ou
frightened, love ? . . . There now, love ! There
now ! . . . Lambabaun ! Mamma's little lamb of
the world ! . . . There now ! '

Little Chandler felt his cheeks suffused with shame
and he stood back out of the lamplight. He listened
while the paroxysm of the child's sobbing grew less
and less ; and tears of remorse started to his eyes.

COUNTERPARTS

The bell rang furiously and, when Miss Parker went
to the tube, a furious voice called out in a piercing
North of Ireland accent :

' Send Farrington here ! '

Miss Parker returned to her machine, saying to a
man who was writing at a desk :

' Mr AUeyne wants you upstairs.'

The man muttered 'Blast him 1 ' under his breath
and pushed back his chair to stand up. When he
stood up he was tall and of great bulk. He had
a hanging face, dark wine-coloured, with fair eye-
brows and moustache : his eyes bulged forward
slightly and the whites of them were dirty. He
lifted up the counter and, passing by the clients,
went out of the office with a heavy step.

He went heavily upstairs until he came to the
second landing, where a door bore a brass plate with
the inscription Mr Alleyne. Here he halted, puffing
with labour and vexation, and knocked. The shrill
voice cried :

' Come in ! '

The man entered Mr AUeyne's room. Simultane-
ously Mr Alleyne, a little man wearing gold-rimmed
glasses on a clean-shaven face, shot his head up over
a pile of documents. The head itself was so pink and

104

COUNTERPARTS 105

hairless it seemed like a large egg reposing on the
papers. Mr Alleyne did not lose a moment :

' Farrington ? What is the meaning of this ?
Why have I always to complain of you ? May I
ask you why you haven't made a copy of that contract
between Bodley and Kirwan ? I told you it must
be ready by four o'clock.'

' But Mr Shelley said, sir '

' Mr Shelley said, sir. . . . Kindly attend to what
I say and not to what Mr Shelley says, sir. You have
always some excuse or another for shirking work.
Let me tell you that if the contract is not copied
before this evening I'll lay the matter before Mr
Crosbie. ... Do you hear me now ? '

' Yes, sir.'

' Do you hear me now ? . . . Ay and another little
matter ! I might as well be talking to the wall as
talking to you. Understand once for all that you
get a half an hour for your lunch and not an hour
and a half. How many courses do you want, I'd
like to know. . . . Do you mind me, now ? '

'Yes, sir.'

Mr Alleyne bent his head again upon his pile of
papers. The man stared fixedly at the polished
skull which directed the affairs of Crosbie & Alleyne,
gauging its fragility. A spasm of rage gripped his
throat for a few moments and then passed, leaving
after it a sharp sensation of thirst. The man recog-
nised the sensation and felt that he must have a good
night's drinking. The middle of the month was
passed and, if he could get the copy done in time,

106 DUBLINERS

Mr AUeyne might give him an order on the cashier.
He stood still, gazing fixedly at the head upon the
pile of papers. Suddenly Mr Alleyne began to upset
all the papers, searching for something. Then, as if
he had been unaware of the man's presence till that
moment, he shot up his head again, saying :

' Eh ? Are you going to stand there all day ?
Upon my word, Farrington, you take things easy ! *

' I was waiting to see . . .'

' Very good, you needn't wait to see. Go down-
stairs and do your work.'

The man walked heavily towards the door and, as
he went out of the room, he heard Mr Alleyne cry
after him that if the contract was not copied by even-
ing Mr Crosbie would hear of the matter.

He returned to his desk in the lower office and
counted the sheets which remained to be copied.
He took up his pen and dipped it in the ink but he
continued to stare stupidly at the last words he had
written : In no case shall the said Bernard Bodley
be . . . The evening was falling and in a few minutes
they would be lighting the gas : then he could write.
He felt that he must slake the thirst in his throat.
He stood up from his desk and, lifting the counter
as before, passed out of the office. As he was passing
out the chief clerk looked at him inquiringly.

' It's all right, Mr Shelley,' said the man, pointing
with his finger to indicate the objective of his
journey.

The chief clerk glanced at the hat-rack but, seeing
the row complete, offered no remark. As soon as he

COUNTERPARTS 107

was on the landing the man pulled a shepherd's
plaid cap out of his pocket, put it on his head and
ran quickly down the rickety stairs. From the street
door he walked on furtively on the inner side of the
path towards the corner and all at once dived into a
doorway. He was now safe in the dark snug of
O'NeiU's shop, and, filling up the little window
that looked into the bar with his inflamed face,
the colour of dark wine or dark meat, he called
out :

' Here, Pat, give us a g.p., like a good fellow.'

The curate brought him a glass of plain porter.
The man drank it at a gulp and asked for a caraway
seed. He put his penny on the counter and, leaving
the curate to grope for it in the gloom, retreated out
of the snug as furtively as he had entered it.

Darkness, accompanied by a thick fog, was gaining
upon the dusk of February and the lamps in Eustace
Street had been lit. The man went up by the houses
until he reached the door of the office, wondering
whether he could fi nish his copy in time. On the stairs
a moist pungent odour of perfumes saluted his nose :
evidently Miss Delacour had come while he wds out
in O'Neill's. He crammed his cap back again into
his pocket and re-entered the office, assuming an air
of absent-mindedness.

' Mr AUeyne has been calling for you,' said the
chief clerk severely. ' Where were you ? '

The man glanced at the two clients who were
standing at the counter as if to intimate that their
presence prevented him from answering. As the

108 DUBLINERS

clients were both male the chief clerk allowed himself
a laugh.

' I know that game,' he said. ' Five times in one
day is a little bit. . . . Well, you better look sharp
and get a copy of our correspondence in the Delacour
case for Mr AUeyne.*

This address in the presence of the public, his run
upstairs and the porter he had gulped down so hastily
confused the man and, as he sat down at his desk to
get what was required, he realised how hopeless was
the task of finishing his copy of the contract before
half past five. The dark damp night was coming
and he longed to spend it in the bars, drinking with
his friends amid the glare of gas and the clatter of
glasses. He got out the Delacour correspondence and
passed out of the office. He hoped Mr Alleyne would
not discover that the last two letters were missing.

The moist pungent perfume lay all the way up to
Mr Alleyne's room. Miss Delacour was a middle-aged
woman of Jewish appearance. Mr Alleyne was said
to be sweet on her or on her money. She came to the
office often and stayed a long time when she came.
She was sitting beside his desk now in an aroma of
perfumes, smoothing the handle of her umbrella and
nodding the great black feather in her hat. Mr
Alleyne had swivelled his chair round to face her and
thrown his right foot jauntily upon his left knee.
The man put the correspondence on the desk and
bowed respectfully but neither Mr Alleyne nor Miss
Delacour took any notice of his bow. Mr Alleyne
tapped a finger on the correspondence and then

COUNTERPARTS 109

flicked it towards him as if to say : * TliaCs all
right: you can go.'

The man returned to the lower office and sat down
again at his desk. He stared intently at the incom-
plete phrase : In no case shall the said Bernard Bodley
be . . . and thought how strange it was that the
last three words began with the same letter. The
chief clerk began to hurry Miss Parker, saying she
would never have the letters typed in time for post.
The man listened to the clicking of the machine for
a few minutes and then set to work to finish his copy.
But his head was not clear and his mind wandered
away to the glare and rattle of the public-house.
It was a night for hot punches. He struggled on with
his copy, but when the clock struck five he had still
fourteen pages to write. Blast it ! He couldn't
finish it in time. He longed to execrate aloud, to
bring his fist down on something violently. He was
so enraged that he wrote Bernard Bernard instead of
Bernard Bodley and had to begin again on a clean
sheet.

He felt strong enough to clear out the whole office
single-handed. His body ached to do something,
to rush out and revel in violence. All the indignities
of his life enraged him. . . . Could he ask the cashier
privately for an advance ? No, the cashier was no
good, no damn good ; he wouldn't give an advance.
. . . He knew where he would meet the boys : Leonard
and O'Halloran and Nosey Flynn. The barometer
of his emotional nature was set for a spell of riot.

His imagination had so abstracted him that his

no DUBLINERS

name was called twice before he answered. Mr
AUeyne and Miss Delacour were standing outside the
counter and all the clerks had turned round in
anticipation of something. The man got up from
his desk. Mr Alleyne began a tirade of abuse, saying
that two letters were missing. The man answered
that he knew nothing about them, that he had made
a faithful copy. The tirade continued : it was so
bitter and violent that the man could hardly restrain
his fist from descending upon the head of the mani-
kin before him :

' I know nothing about any other two letters,' he
said stupidly.

' You — know — nothing. Of course you know
nothing,' said Mr Alleyne. ' Tell me,' he added,
glancing first for approval to the lady beside him,
' do you take me for a fool ? Do you think me an
utter fool ? '

The man glanced from the lady's face to the little
egg-shaped head and back again ; and, almost before
he was aware of it, his tongue had found a felicitous
moment :

' I don't think, sir,' he said, ' that that's a fair
question to put to me.'

There was a pause in the very breathing of the
clerks. Everyone was astounded (the author of the
witticism no less than his neighbours) and Miss
Delacour, who was a stout amiable person, began to
smile broadly. Mr Alleyne flushed to the hue of a
wild rose and his mouth tmtched with a dwarf's
passion. He shook his fist in the man's face till it

COUNTERPARTS 111

seemed to vibrate like the knob of some electric
machine :

' You impertinent ruffian ! You impertinent
ruffian ! I'll make short work of you ! Wait till
you see ! You'll apologise to me for your imper-
tinence or you'll quit the office instanter ! You'll
quit this, I'm teUing you, or you'll apologise to
me ! '

He stood in a doorway opposite the office watching
to see if the cashier would come out alone. All the
clerks passed out and finally the cashier came out
with the chief clerk. It was no use trying to say a
word to him when he was with the chief clerk. The
man felt that his position was bad enough. He had
been obliged to offer an abject apology to Mr Alley ne
for his impertinence but he knew what a hornet's
nest the office would be for him. He could remember
the way in which Mr Alley ne had hounded little
Peake out of the office in order to make room for his
own nephew. He felt savage and thirsty and revenge-
ful, annoyed with himself and with everyone else.
Mr Alleyne would never give him an hour's rest ;
his life would be a hell to him. He had made a proper
fool of himself this time. Could he not keep his
tongue in his cheek ? But they had never pulled
together from the first he and Mr Alleyne, ever since
the day Mr Alleyne had overheard him mimicking
his North of Ireland accent to amuse Higgins and
Miss Parker : that had been the beginning of it. He
might have tried Higgins for the money, but sure

112 DUBLINERS

Higgins never had anything for himself. A man
with two establishments to keep up, of course he
couldn't. . . .

He felt his great body again aching for the comfort
of the public-house. The fog had begun to chill
him and he wondered could he touch Pat in O'Neill's.
He could not touch him for more than a bob — and
a bob was no use. Yet he must get money somewhere
or other : he had spent his last penny for the g.p.
and soon it would be too late for getting money any-
where. Suddenly, as he was fingering his watch-chain,
he thought of Terry Kelly's pawn-office in Fleet
Street. That was the dart 1 Why didn't he think of
it sooner ?

He went through the narrow alley of Temple Bar
quickly, muttering to himself that they could all go
to hell because he was going to have a good night of
it. The clerk in Terry Kelly's said A crown ! but the
consignor held out for six shillings ; and in the end
the six shillings was allowed him literally. He came
out of the pawn-office joyfully, making a little cylinder
of the coins between his thumb and fingers. In
Westmoreland Street the footpaths were crowded
with young men and women returning from business
and ragged urchins ran here and there yelling out
the names of the evening editions. The man passed
through the crowd, looking on the spectacle generally
with proud satisfaction and staring masterfully at
the office-girls. His head was full of the noises of
tram-gongs and swishing trolleys and his nose
already sniffed the curling fumes of punch. As he

COUNTERPARTS 118

walked on he preconsidered the terms in which he
would narrate the incident to the boys :

' So, I just looked at him — coolly, you know, and
looked at her. Then I looked back at him again —
taking my time, you know. "I don't think that
that's a fair question to put to me, says I." '

Nosey Flynn was sitting up in his usual corner
of Davy Byrne's and, when he heard the story, he
stood Farrington a half-one, saying it was as smart
a thing as ever he heard. Farrington stood a drink
in his turn. After a while O'Halloran and Paddy
Leonard came in and the story was repeated to them.
O'Halloran stood tailors of malt, hot, all round and
told the story of the retort he had made to the chief
clerk when he was in Callan's of Fownes's Street ;
but, as the retort was after the manner of the liberal
shepherds in the eclogues, he had to admit that it
was not so clever as Farrington's retort. At this
Farrington told the boys to polish off that and have
another.

Just as they were naming their poisons who should
come in but Higgins ! Of course he had to join in
with the others. The men asked him to give his
version of it, and he did so with great vivacity for the
sight of five small hot whiskies was very exhilarating.
Everyone roared laughing when he showed the way
in which Mr AUeyne shook his fist in Farrington's face.
Then he imitated Farrington, saying, 'And here was
my nabs, as cool as you please,^ while Farrington
looked at the company out of his heavy dirty eyes,
smiling and at times drawing forth stray drops of

H

114 DUBLINERS

liquor from his moustache with the aid of his lower
lip.

When that round was over there was a pause.
O'Halloran had money but neither of the other two
seemed to have any ; so the whole party left the shop
somewhat regretfully. At the corner of Duke Street
Higgins and Nosey Flynn bevelled off to the left while
the other three turned back towards the city. Rain
was drizzling down on the cold streets and, when they
reached the Ballast Office, Farrington suggested the
Scotch House. The bar was full of men and loud with
the noise of tongues and glasses. The three men
pushed past the whining match-sellers at the door
and formed a little party at the corner of the counter.
They began to exchange stories. Leonard intro-
duced them to a young fellow named Weathers who
was performing at the Tivoli as an acrobat and
knockabout artiste. Farrington stood a drink all
round. Weathers said he would take a small Irish
and ApoUinaris. Farrington, who had definite
notions of what was what, asked the boys would
they have an ApoUinaris too ; but the boys told Tim
to make theirs hot. The talk became theatrical.
O'Halloran stood a round and then Farrington stood
another round. Weathers protesting that the hospi-
tality was too Irish. He promised to get them in
behind the scenes and introduce them to some
nice girls. O'Halloran said that he and Leonard
would go but that Farrington wouldn't go because
he was a married man ; and Farrington's heavy
dirty eyes leered at the company in token that he

COUNTERPARTS 115

understood he was being chaffed. Weathers made
them all have just one little tincture at his expense
and promised to meet them later on at Mulligan's in
Poolbeg Street.

When the Scotch House closed they went round to
Mulligan's. They went into the parlour at the back
and O'Halloran ordered small hot specials all round.
They were all beginning to feel mellow. Farrington
was just standing another round when Weathers
came back. Much to Farrington's relief he drank
a glass of bitter this time. Funds were getting low
but they had enough to keep them going. Presently
two young women with big hats and a young man in
a check suit came in and sat at a table close by.
Weathers saluted them and told the company that
they were out of the Tivoli. Farrington's eyes
wandered at every moment in the direction of one of
the young women. There was something striking in
her appearance. An immense scarf of peacock-blue
muslin was wound round her hat and knotted in a
great bow under her chin ; and she wore bright
yellow gloves, reaching to the elbow. Farrington
gazed admiringly at the plump arm which she moved
very often and with much grace ; and when, after
a little time, she answered his gaze he admired
still more her large dark brown eyes. The oblique
staring expression in them fascinated him. She
glanced at him once or twice and, when the party was
leaving the room, she brushed against his chair and
said * 0, pardon .' ' in a London accent. He watched
her leave the room in the hope that she would look

116 DUBLINERS

back at him, but he was disappointed. He cursed
his want of money and cursed all the rounds he had
stood, particularly all the whiskies and Apollinaris
which he had stood to Weathers. If there was one
thing that he hated it was a sponge. He was so
angry that he lost count of the conversation of his
friends.

When Paddy Leonard called him he found that
they were talking about feats of strength. Weathers
was showing his biceps muscle to the company and
boasting so much that the other two had called on
Farrington to uphold the national honour. Farring-
ton pulled up his sleeve accordingly and showed his
biceps muscle to the company. The two arms were
examined and compared and finally it was agreed
to have a trial of strength. The table was cleared
and the two men rested their elbows on it, clasping
hands. When Paddy Leonard said 'Go!' each was
to try to bring down the other's hand on to the table.
Farrington looked very serious and determined.

The trial began. After about thirty seconds
Weathers brought his opponent's hand slowly down
on to the table. Farrington's dark wine-coloured
face flushed darker still with anger and humiliation
at having been defeated by such a stripling.

' You're not to put the weight of your body behind
it. Play fair,' he said.

' Who's not playing fair ? ' said the other.

' Come on again. The two best out of three.'

The trial began again. The veins stood out on
Farrington's forehead, and the pallor of Weathers'

COUNTERPARTS 117

complexion changed to peony. Their hands and
arms trembled under the stress. After a long
struggle Weathers again brought his opponent's
hand slowly on to the table. There was a murmur
of applause from the spectators. The curate, who
was standing beside the table, nodded his red head
towards the victor and said with stupid familiarity :

' Ah ! that's the knack ! '

' What the hell do you know about it ? ' said
Farrington fiercely, turning on the man. ' What do
5^ou put in your gab for ? '

' Sh, sh ! ' said O'Halloran, observing the violent
expression of Farrington's face. ' Pony up, boys.
We'll have just one little smahan more and then
we'll be off.'

A very sullen-faced man stood at the corner of
O'Connell Bridge waiting for the httle Sandymount
tram to take him home. He was full of smouldering
anger and revengefulness. He felt humiliated and
discontented ; he did not even feel drunk ; and he had
only twopence in his pocket. He cursed everything.
He had done for himself in the office, pawned his
watch, spent all his money ; and he had not even
got drunk. He began to feel thirsty again and he
longed to be back again in the hot reeking public-
house. He had lost his reputation as a strong man,
having been defeated twice by a mere boy. His
heart swelled with fury and, when he thought of
the woman in the big hat who had brushed against
him and said Pardon ! his fury nearly choked him.

118 DUBLINERS

His tram let him down at Shelbourne Road and he
steered his great body along in the shadow of the wall
of the barracks. He loathed returning to his home.
When he went in by the side-door he found the
kitchen empty and the kitchen fire nearly out. He
bawled upstairs :

'Ada! Ada!'

His wife was a little sharp-faced woman who
bullied her husband when he was sober and was
bullied by him when he was drunk. They had five
children. A little boy came running down the stairs.

' Who is that ? ' said the man, peering through
the darkness.

' Me, pa.'

' Who are you ? Charlie ? '

' No, pa. Tom.'

' Where's your mother ? '

' She's out at the chapel.'

' That's right. . . . Did she think of leaving any
dinner for me ? '

'Yes, pa. I '

* Light the lamp. What do you mean by having
the place in darkness ? Are the other children in
bed?'

The man sat down heavily on one of the chairs
while the little boy lit the lamp. He began to
mimic his son's fiat accent, saying half to himself :
* At the chapel At the chapel, if you please I ' When
the lamp was lit he banged his fist on the table and
shouted :

' What's for my dinner ? '

COUNTERPARTS 119

'I'm going ... to cook it, pa,' said the little
boy.

The man jumped up furiously and pointed to the
fire.

* On that fire ! You let the fire out 1 By God,
I'll teach you to do that again ! '

He took a step to the door and seized the walking-
stick which was standing behind it.

' I'll teach you to let the fire out 1 ' he said, rolling
up his sleeve in order to give his arm free play.

The little boy cried ' O, ya ! ' and ran whimpering
round the table, but the man followed him and caught
him by the coat. The little boy looked about him
wildly but, seeing no way of escape, fell upon his
knees.

' Now, you'll let the fire out the next time ! ' said
the man, striking at him viciously with the stick.
' Take that, you little whelp 1 '

The boy uttered a squeal of pain as the stick cut
his thigh. He clasped his hands together in the air
and his voice shook with fright.

' O, pa ! ' he cried. ' Don't beat me, pa ! And
I'll . . . I'll say a Hail Mary for you. . . . I'll say
a Hail Mary for you, pa, if you don't beat me. . . .
VMsSiyB. Hail Mary . . .'

CLAY

The matron had given her leave to go out as soon as
the women's tea was over and Maria looked forward
to her evening out. The kitchen was spick and span :
the cook said you could see yourself in the big copper
boilers. The fire was nice and bright and on one of
the side-tables were four very big barmbracks. These
barmbracks seemed uncut ; but if you went closer
you would see that they had been cut into long thick
even slices and were ready to be handed round at tea.
Maria had cut them herself.

Maria was a very, very small person indeed but
she had a very long nose and a very long chin. She
talked a little through her nose, always soothingly :
* Yes, my dear,^ and *iVo, my dear.' She was always
sent for when the women quarrelled over their tubs
and always succeeded in making peace. One day
the matron had said to her :

' Maria, you are a veritable peace-maker ! '

And the sub-matron and two of the Board ladies
had heard the compliment. And Ginger Mooney
was always saying what she wouldn't do to the
dummy who had charge of the irons if it wasn't for
Maria. Everyone was so fond of Maria.

The women would have their tea at six o'clock
and she would be able to get away before seven.

120

CLAY 121

From Ballsbridge to the Pillar, twenty minutes ;
from the Pillar to Drumcondra, twenty minutes ; and
twenty minutes to buy the things. She would be
there before eight. She took out her purse with the
silver clasps and read again the words A Present from
Belfast She was very fond of that purse because
Joe had brought it to her five years before when he
and Alphy had gone to Belfast on a Whit-Monday
trip. In the purse were two half-crowns and some
coppers. She would have five shillings clear after
paying tram fare. What a nice evening they would
have, all the children singing ! Only she hoped that
Joe wouldn't come in drunk. He was so different
when he took any drink.

Often he had wanted her to go and live with
them ; but she would have felt herself in the way
(though Joe's wife was ever so nice with her) and she
had become accustomed to the life of the laundry.
Joe was a good fellow. She had nursed him and
Alphy too ; and Joe used often say :

' Mamma is mamma but Maria is my proper
mother.'

After the break-up at home the boys had got her
that position in the Dublin by Lamplight laundry, and
she liked it. She used to have such a bad opinion
of Protestants but now she thought they were very
nice people, a little quiet and serious, but still very
nice people to live with. Then she had her plants in
the conservatory and she liked looking after them.
She had lovely ferns and wax-plants and, whenever
anyone came to visit her, she always gave the visitor

122 DUBLINERS

one or two slips from her conservatory. There was
one thing she didn't Hke and that was the tracts on
the walls ; but the matron was such a nice person to
deal with, so genteel.

When the cook told her everything was ready she
went into the women's room and began to pull the
big bell. In a few minutes the women began to
come in by twos and threes, wiping their steaming
hands in their petticoats and pulling down the sleeves
of their blouses over their red steaming arms. They
settled down before their huge mugs which the cook
and the dummy filled up with hot tea, already mixed
with milk and sugar in huge tin cans. Maria super-
intended the distribution of the barmbrack and saw
that every woman got her four slices. There was a
great deal of laughing and joking during the meal.
Lizzie Fleming said Maria was sure to get the ring
and, though Fleming had said that for so many Hallow
Eves, Maria had to laugh and say she didn't want
any ring or man either ; and when she laughed her
grey-green eyes sparkled with disappointed shyness
and the tip of her nose nearly met the tip of her chin.
Then Ginger Mooney lifted up her mug of tea and
proposed Maria's health while all the other women
clattered with their mugs on the table, and said she
was sorry she hadn't a sup of porter to drink it in.
And Maria laughed again till the tip of her nose nearly
met the tip of her chin and till her minute body
nearly shook itself asunder because she knew that
Mooney meant well though, of course, she had the
notions of a common woman.

CLAY 123

But wasn't Maria glad when the women had
finished their tea and the cook and the dummy had
begun to clear away the tea-things ! She went into
her little bedroom and, remembering that the next
morning was a mass morning, changed the hand of
the alarm from seven to six. Then she took off her
working skirt and her house-boots and laid her best
skirt out on the bed and her tiny dress-boots beside
the foot of the bed. She changed her blouse too and,
as she stood before the mirror, she thought of how
she used to dress for mass on Sunday morning when
she was a young girl ; and she looked with quaint
affection at the diminutive body which she had so
often adorned. In spite of its years she found it a
nice tidy little body.

Wlien she got outside the streets were shining with
rain and she was glad of her old brown waterproof.
The tram was full and she had to sit on the little stool
at the end of the car, facing all the people, with her
toes barely touching the floor. She arranged in her
mind all she was going to do and thought how much
better it was to be independent and to have your
own money in your pocket. She hoped they would
have a nice evening. She was sure they would
but she could not help thinking what a pity it was
Alphy and Joe were not speaking. They were always
falling out now but when they were boys together
they used to be the best of friends : but such was
life.

She got out of her tram at the Pillar and ferreted
her way quickly among the crowds. She went into

124 DUBLINERS

Downes's cake-shop but the shop was so full of people
that it was a long time before she could get herself
attended to. She bought a dozen of mixed penny
cakes, and at last came out of the shop laden with
a big bag. Then she thought what else would she
buy : she wanted to buy something really nice. They
would be sure to have plenty of apples and nuts.
It was hard to know what to buy and all she could
think of was cake. She decided to buy some plum-
cake but Downes's plumcake had not enough almond
icing on top of it so she went over to a shop in Henry
Street. Here she was a long time in suiting herself
and the stylish young lady behind the counter, who
was evidently a little annoyed by her, asked her was
it wedding-cake she wanted to buy. That made
Maria blush and smile at the young lady ; but the
young lady took it all very seriously and finally cut
a thick slice of plumcake, parcelled it up and said :

' Two-and-four, please.'

She thought she would have to stand in the Drum-
condra tram because none of the young men seemed
to notice her but an elderly gentleman made room
for her. He was a stout gentleman and he wore a
brown hard hat ; he had a square red face and a
greyish moustache. Maria thought he was a colonel-
looking gentleman and she reflected how much more
polite he was than the young men who simply stared
straight before them. The gentleman began to chat
with her about Hallow Eve and the rainy weather.
He supposed the bag was full of good things for
the little ones and said it was only right that the

CLAY 125

youngsters should enjoy themselves while they were
young. Maria agreed with him and favoured him
with demure nods and hems. He was very nice with
her, and when she was getting out at the Canal
Bridge she thanked him and bowed, and he bowed
to her and raised his hat and smiled agreeably ; and
while she was going up along the terrace, bending
her tiny head under the rain, she thought how easy
it was to know a gentleman even when he has a drop
taken.

Everybody said : * 0, here's Maria ! ' when she came
to Joe's house. Joe was there, having come home
from business, and all the children had their Sunday
dresses on. There were two big girls in from next
door and games were going on. Maria gave the bag
of cakes to the eldest boy, Alphy, to divide and Mrs
Donnelly said it was too good of her to bring such
a big bag of cakes and made all the children say :

' Thanks, Maria.'

But Maria said she had brought something special
for papa and mamma, something they would be sure
to like, and she began to look for her plumcake.
She tried in Downes's bag and then in the pockets of
her waterproof and then on the hallstand but no-
where could she find it. Then she asked all the
children had any of them eaten it — by mistake, of
course — but the children all said no and looked as if
they did not hke to eat cakes if they were to be accused
of stealing. Everybody had a solution for the mystery
and Mrs Donnelly said it was plain that Maria had
left it behind her in the tram. Maria, remembering

126 DUBLINERS

how confused the gentleman with the greyish mous-
tache had made her, coloured with shame and vexa-
tion and disappointment. At the thought of the
failure of her little surprise and of the two and four-
pence she had thrown away for nothing she nearly
cried outright.

But Joe said it didn't matter and made her sit
down by the fire. He was very nice with her. He
told her all that went on in his office, repeating for her
a smart answer which he had made to the manager.
Maria did not understand why Joe laughed so much
over the answer he had made but she said that the
manager must have been a very overbearing person
to deal with. Joe said he wasn't so bad when you
knew how to take him, that he was a decent sort so
long as you didn't rub him the wrong way. Mrs
Donnelly played the piano for the children and they
danced and sang. Then the two next-door girls
handed round the nuts. Nobody could find the nut-
crackers and Joe was nearly getting cross over it
and asked how did they expect Maria to crack nuts
without a nutcracker. But Maria said she didn't
like nuts and that they weren't to bother about her.
Then Joe asked would she take a bottle of stout and
Mrs Donnelly said there was port wine too in the
house if she would prefer that. Maria said she would
rather they didn't ask her to take anything : but
Joe insisted.

So Maria let him have his way and they sat by the
fire talking over old times and Maria thought she
would put in a good word for Alphy. But Joe cried

CLAY 127

that God might strike him stone dead if ever he spoke
a word to his brother again and Maria said she was
sorry she had mentioned the matter. Mrs Donnelly-
told her husband it was a great shame for him to
speak that way of his own flesh and blood but Joe
said that Alphy was no brother of his and there was
nearly being a row on the head of it. But Joe said
he would not lose his temper on account of the night
it was and asked his wife to open some more stout.
The two next-door girls had arranged some Hallow
Eve games and soon everything was merry again.
Maria was delighted to see the children so merry and
Joe and his wife in such good spirits. The next-door
girls put some saucers on the table and then led the
children up to the table, blindfold. One got the
prayer-book and the other three got the water ; and
when one of the next-door girls got the ring Mrs
Donnelly shook her finger at the blushing girl as much
as to say : 0, / know all about it ! They insisted
then on blindfolding Maria and leading her up to the
table to see what she would get ; and, while they
were putting on the bandage, Maria laughed and
laughed again till the tip of her nose nearly met the
tip of her chin.

They led her up to the table amid laughing and
joking and she put her hand out in the air as she was
told to do. She moved her hand about here and there
in the air and descended on one of the saucers. She
felt a soft wet substance with her fingers and was
surprised that nobody spoke or took off her bandage.
There was a pause for a few seconds ; and then a

128 DUBLINERS

great deal of scuffling and whispering. Somebody
said something about the garden, and at last Mrs
Donnelly said something very cross to one of the
next-door girls and told her to throw it out at once :
that was no play. Maria understood that it was
wrong that time and so she had to do it over again :
and this time she got the prayer-book.

After that Mrs Donnelly played Miss McCloud's
Reel for the children and Joe made Maria take a
glass of wine. Soon they were all quite merry again
and Mrs Donnelly said Maria would enter a convent
before the year was out because she had got the
prayer-book. Maria had never seen Joe so nice to her
as he was that night, so full of pleasant talk and
reminiscences. She said they were all very good to
her.

At last the children grew tired and sleepy and Joe
asked Maria would she not sing some little song before
she went, one of the old songs. Mrs Donnelly said
*DOi please, Maria T and so Maria had to get up
and stand beside the piano. Mrs Donnelly bade
the children be quiet and listen to Maria's song.
Then she played the prelude and said ' Now, Maria ! '
and Maria, blushing very much, began to sing in
a tiny quavering voice. She sang / Dreamt that I
Dwelt, and when she came to the second verse she
sang again :

* / dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls
With vassals and serfs at my side
A nd of all who assembled within those walls
That I was the hope and the pride.

CLAY 129

/ had riches too great to county eould boast

Of a high ancestral name,
But I also dreamt, which pleased me most,

That you loved me still the same.*

But no one tried to show her her mistake ; and
when she had ended her song Joe was very much
moved. He said that there was no time like the long
ago and no music for him like poor old Balfe, what-
ever other people might say ; and his eyes filled up
so much with tears that he could not find what he
was looking for and in the end he had to ask his wife
to tell him where the corkscrew was.

A PAINFUL CASE

Mr James Duffy lived in Chapelizod because he
wished to live as far as possible from the city of
which he was a citizen and because he found all the
other suburbs of Dublin mean, modern and pre-
tentious. He lived in an old sombre house and from
his windows he could look into the disused distillery
or upwards along the shallow river on which Dublin
is built. The lofty walls of his uncarpeted room
were free from pictures. He had himself bought
every article of furniture in the room : a black iron
bedstead, an iron washstand, four cane chairs, a
clothes-rack, a coal-scuttle, a fender and irons and
a square table on which lay a double desk. A book-
case had been made in an alcove by means of shelves
of white wood. The bed was clothed with white
bed-clothes and a black and scarlet rug covered the
foot. A little hand-mirror hung above the wash-
stand and during the day a white-shaded lamp stood
as the sole ornament of the mantelpiece. The books
on the white wooden shelves were arranged from
below upwards according to bulk. A complete
Wordsworth stood at one end of the lowest shelf and
a copy of the Maynooth Catechism^ sewn into the
cloth cover of a notebook, stood at one end of
the top shelf. Writing materials were always on the

130

A PAINFUL CASE 131

desk. In the desk lay a manuscript translation of
Hauptmann's Michael Kramer, the stage directions
of which were written in purple ink, and a little sheaf
of papers held together by a brass pin. In these
sheets a sentence was inscribed from time to time
and, in an ironical moment, the headline of an
advertisement for Bile Beans had been pasted on to
the first sheet. On lifting the lid of the desk a faint
fragrance escaped — the fragrance of new cedarwood
pencils or of a bottle of gum or of an over-ripe apple
which might have been left there and forgotten.

Mr Duffy abhorred anything which betokened
physical or mental disorder. A mediaeval doctor
would have called him saturnine. His face, which
carried the entire tale of his years, was of the brown
tint of Dublin streets. On his long and rather large
head grew dry black hair and a tawny moustache
did not quite cover an unamiable mouth. His cheek-
bones also gave his face a harsh character ; but there
was no harshness in the eyes which, looking at the
world from under their tawny eyebrows, gave the
impression of a man ever alert to greet a redeeming
instinct in others but often disappointed. He lived
at a little distance from his body, regarding his own
acts with doubtful side-glances. He had an odd
autobiographical habit which led him to compose in
his mind from time to time a short sentence about
himself containing a subject in the third person
and a predicate in the past tense. He never gave
alms to beggars and walked firmly, carrying a stout
hazel.

132 DUBLINERS

He had been for many years cashier of a private
bank in Baggot Street. Every morning he came in
from ChapeUzod by tram. At midday he went to
Dan Burke's and took his lunch — a bottle of lager
beer and a small trayful of arrowroot biscuits. At
four o'clock he was set free. He dined in an eating-
house in George's Street where he felt himself safe
from the society of Dublin's gilded youth and where
there was a certain plain honesty in the bill of fare.
His evenings were spent either before his landlady's
piano or roaming about the outskirts of the city.
His liking for Mozart's music brought him sometimes
to an opera or a concert : these were the only
dissipations of his life.

He had neither companions nor friends, church nor
creed. He lived his spiritual life without any com-
munion with others, visiting his relatives at Christmas
and escorting them to the cemetery when they died.
He performed these two social duties for old dignity'
sake but conceded nothing further to the conventions
which regulate the civic life. He allowed himself
to think that in certain circumstances he would
rob his bank but, as these circumstances never
arose, his life rolled out evenly — ^an adventureless
tale.

One evening he found himself sitting beside two
ladies in the Rotunda. The house, thinly peopled
and silent, gave distressing prophecy of failure. The
lady who sat next him looked round at the deserted
house once or twice and then said :

' What a pity there is such a poor house to-night !

A PAINFUL CASE 188

It's so hard on people to have to sing to empty
benches.'

He took the remark as an invitation to talk. He
was surprised that she seemed so little awkward.
VVTiile they talked he tried to fix her permanently in
his memory. When he learned that the young girl
beside her was her daughter he judged her to be a
year or so younger than himself. Her face, which
must have been handsome, had remained intelligent.
It was an oval face with strongly marked features.
The eyes were very dark blue and steady. Their
gaze began with a defiant note but was confused by
what seemed a deliberate swoon of the pupil into
the iris, revealing for an instant a temperament of
great sensibility. The pupil reasserted itself quickly,
this half -disclosed nature fell again under the reign
of prudence, and her astrakhan jacket, moulding a
bosom of a certain fulness, struck the note of defiance
more definitely.

He met her again a few weeks afterwards at a
concert in Earlsf ort Terrace and seized the moments
when her daughter's attention was diverted to become
intimate. She alluded once or twice to her husband
but her tone was not such as to make the allusion a
warning. Her name was ^Irs Sinico. Her husband's
great-great-grandfather had come from Leghorn.
Her husband was captain of a mercantile boat plying
between Dublin and Holland; and they had one
child.

Meeting her a third time by accident he found
courage to make an appointment. She came. This

184 DUBLINERS

was the first of many meetings ; they met ahvays
in the evening and chose the most quiet quarters for
their walks together. Mr Duffy, however, had a
distaste for underhand ways and, finding that they
were compelled to meet stealthily, he forced her to
ask him to her house. Captain Sinico encouraged
his visits, thinking that his daughter's hand was in
question. He had dismissed his wife so sincerely
from his gallery of pleasures that he did not suspect
that anyone else would take an interest in her. As the
husband was often away and the daughter out giving
music lessons Mr Duffy had many opportunities of
enjoying the lady's society. Neither he nor she had
had any such adventure before and neither was
conscious of any incongruity. Little by little he
entangled his thoughts with hers. He lent her books,
provided her with ideas, shared his intellectual life
with her. She listened to all.

Sometimes in return for his theories she gave out
some fact of her own life. With almost maternal
solicitude she urged him to let his nature open to the
full ; she became his confessor. He told her that for
some time he had assisted at the meetings of an Irish
Socialist Party where he had felt himself a unique
figure amidst a score of sober workmen in a garret
lit by an inefficient oil-lamp. When the party had
divided into three sections, each under its own
leader and in its own garret, he had discontinued his
attendances. The workmen's discussions, he said,
were too timorous ; the interest they took in the
question of wages was inordinate. He felt that they

A PAINFUL CASE 135

were hard-featured realists and that they resented
an exactitude which was the produce of a leisure
not within their reach. No social revolution, he
told her, would be likely to strike Dublin for some
centuries.

She asked him why did he not write out his
thoughts. For what, he asked her, with careful
scorn. To compete with phrasemongers, incapable
of thinking consecutively for sixty seconds ? To
submit himself to the criticisms of an obtuse middle
class which entrusted its morality to policemen and
its fine arts to impresarios ?

He went often to her little cottage outside Dublin ;
often they spent their evenings alone. Little by
little, as their thoughts entangled, they spoke of
subjects less remote. Her companionship was like
a warm soil about an exotic. Many times she allowed
the dark to fall upon them, refraining from lighting
the lamp. The dark discreet room, their isolation,
the music that still vibrated in their ears united them.
This union exalted him, wore away the rough edges
of his character, emotionalised his mental life. Some-
times he caught himself listening to the sound of his
own voice. He thought that in her eyes he would
ascend to an angelical stature ; and, as he attached
the fervent nature of his companion more and more
closely to him, he heard the strange impersonal voice
which he recognised as his own, insisting on the soul's
incurable loneliness. We cannot give ourselves, it
said : we are our own. The end of these discourses
was that one night during which she had shown every

136 DUBLINERS

sign of unusual excitement, Mrs Sinico caught up his
hand passionately and pressed it to her cheek.

Mr Duffy was very much surprised. Her inter-
pretation of his words disillusioned him. He did not
visit her for a week ; then he wrote to her asking her
to meet him. As he did not wish their last interview
to be troubled by the influence of their ruined con-
fessional they met in a little cakeshop near the Park-
gate. It was cold autumn weather but in spite of
the cold they wandered up and down the roads of the
Park for nearly three hours. They agreed to break
off their intercourse : every bond, he said, is a bond
to sorrow. When they came out of the Park they
walked in silence towards the tram ; but here she
began to tremble so violently that, fearing another
collapse on her part, he bade her good-bye quickly
and left her. A few days later he received a parcel
containing his books and music.

Four years passed. Mr Duffy returned to his
even way of life. His room still bore witness of the
orderliness of his mind. Some new pieces of music
encumbered the music-stand in the lower room and
on his shelves stood two volumes by Nietzsche :
Thus Spake Zarathustra and The Gay Science. He
wrote seldom in the sheaf of papers which lay in
his desk. One of his sentences, written two months
after his last interview with Mrs Sinico, read : Love
between man and man is impossible because there
must not be sexual intercourse and friendship between
man and woman is impossible because there must be
sexual intercourse. He kept away from concerts

A PAINFUL CASE 137

lest he should meet her. His father died ; the junior
partner of the bank retired. And still every morning
he went into the city by tram and every evening
walked home from the city after having dined
moderately in George's Street and read the evening
paper for dessert.

One evening as he was about to put a morsel of
corned beef and cabbage into his mouth his hand
stopped. His eyes fixed themselves on a paragraph
in the evening paper which he had propped against
the water-carafe. He replaced the morsel of food
on his plate and read the paragraph attentively.
Then he drank a glass of water, pushed his plate to
one side, doubled the paper down before him between
his elbows and read the paragraph over and over again.
The cabbage began to deposit a cold white grease on
his plate. The girl came over to him to ask was his
dinner not properly cooked. He said it was very
good and ate a few mouthfuls of it with difficulty.
Then he paid his bill and went out.

He walked along quickly through the November
twilight, his stout hazel stick striking the ground
regularly, the fringe of the buff Mail peeping out of a
side-pocket of his tight reefer over-coat. On the lonely
road which leads from the Parkgate to Chapelizod
he slackened his pace. His stick struck the ground
less emphatically and his breath, issuing irregularly,
almost with a sighing sound, condensed in the wintry
air. When he reached his house he went up at once
to his bedroom and, taking the paper from his pocket,
read the paragraph again by the failing light of the

188 DUBLINERS

window. He read it not aloud, but moving his lips
as a priest does when he reads the prayers Secreto.
This was the paragraph :

DEATH OF A LADY AT SYDNEY PARADE
A Painful Case

To-day at the City of Dublin Hospital the Deputy
Coroner (in the absence of Mr Leverett) held an
inquest on the body of Mrs Emily Sinico, aged
forty-three years, who was killed at Sydney Parade
Station yesterday evening. The evidence showed
that the deceased lady, while attempting to cross the
line, was knocked down by the engine of the ten-
o'clock slow train from Kingstown, thereby sustain-
ing injuries of the head and right side which led to
her death.

James Lennon, driver of the engine, stated that
he had been in the employment of the railway
company for fifteen years. On hearing the guard's
whistle he set the train in motion and a second or
two afterwards brought it to rest in response to loud
cries. The train was going slowly.

P. Dunne, railway porter, stated that as the train
was about to start he observed a woman attempting
to cross the lines. He ran towards her and shouted
but, before he could reach her, she was caught by the
buffer of the engine and fell to the ground.

A juror. ' You saw the lady fall ? '

A PAINFUL CASE 189

Witness. ' Yes.'

Police Sergeant Croly deposed that when he
arrived he found the deceased lying on the platform
apparently dead. He had the body taken to the
waiting-room pending the arrival of the ambulance.

Constable 57E corroborated.

Dr Halpin, assistant house surgeon of the City of
Dublin Hospital, stated that the deceased had two
lower ribs fractured and had sustained severe con-
tusions of the right shoulder. The right side of the
head had been injured in the fall. The injuries were
not sufficient to have caused death in a normal
person. Death, in his opinion, had been probably
due to shock and sudden failure of the heart's
action.

Mr H. B. Patterson Finlay, on behalf of the railway
company, expressed his deep regret at the accident.
The company had always taken every precaution
to prevent people crossing the Hnes except by the
bridges, both by placing notices in every station and
by the use of patent spring gates at level crossings.
The deceased had been in the habit of crossing the
lines late at night from platform to platform and, in
view of certain other circumstances of the case, he
did not think the railway officials were to blame.

Captain Sinico, of Leoville, Sydney Parade,
husband of the deceased, also gave evidence. He
stated that the deceased was his wife. He was not
in Dublin at the time of the accident as he had
arrived only that morning from Rotterdam. They
had .been married for twenty-two years and had

140 DUBLINERS

lived happily until about two years ago when his
wife began to be rather intemperate in her habits.

Miss Mary Sinico said that of late her mother had
been in the habit of going out at night to buy spirits.
She, witness, had often tried to reason with her
mother and had induced her to join a League. She
was not at home until an hour after the accident.

The Jury returned a verdict in accordance with
the medical evidence and exonerated Lennon from
all blame.

The Deputy Coroner said it was a most painful
case, and expressed great sympathy with Captain
Sinico and his daughter. He urged on the railway
company to take strong measures to prevent the
possibility of similar accidents in the future. No
blame attached to anyone.

Mr Duffy raised his eyes from the paper and gazed
out of his window on the cheerless evening landscape.
The river lay quiet beside the empty distillery and
from time to time a light appeared in some house
on the Lucan road. What an end ! The whole
narrative of her death revolted him and it revolted
him to think that he had ever spoken to her of what
he held sacred. The threadbare phrases, the inane
expressions of sympathy, the cautious words of a
reporter won over to conceal the details of a common-
place vulgar death attacked his stomach. Not
merely had she degraded herself ; she had degraded
him. He saw the squalid tract of her vice, miserable
and malodorous. His soul's companion ! He

A PAINFUL CASE 141

thought of the hobbling wretches whom he had seen
carrj^ing cans and bottles to be filled by the barman.
Just God, what an end ! Evidently she had been
unfit to live, without any strength of purpose, an
easy prey to habits, one of the wrecks on which
civihsation has been reared. But that she could
have sunk so low ! Was it possible he had deceived
himself so utterly about her ? He remembered her
outburst of that night and interpreted it in a harsher
sense than he had ever done. He had no difficulty
now in approving of the course he had taken.

As the light failed and his memory began to wander
he thought her hand touched his. The shock which
had first attacked his stomach was now attacking
his nerves. He put on his overcoat and hat quickly
and went out. The cold air met him on the thres-
hold ; it crept into the sleeves of his coat. When
he came to the public-house at Chapelizod Bridge
he went in and ordered a hot punch.

The proprietor served him obsequiously but did
not venture to talk. There were five or six working-
men in the shop discussing the value of a gentleman's
estate in County Kildare. They drank at intervals
from their huge pint tumblers and smoked, spitting
often on the floor and sometimes dragging the
sawdust over their spits with their heavy boots.
Mr Duffy sat on his stool and gazed at them, without
seeing or hearing them. After a while they went out
and he called for another punch. He sat a long time
over it The shop was very quiet. The proprietor
sprawled on the counter reading the Herald and

142 DUBLINERS

yawning. Now and again a tram was heard swishing
along the lonely road outside.

As he sat there, living over his life with her and
evoking alternately the two images in which he now
conceived her, he realised that she was dead, that she
had ceased to exist, that she had become a memory.
He began to feel ill at ease. He asked himself what
else could he have done. He could not have carried
on a comedy of deception with her ; he could not have
lived with her openly. He had done what seemed
to him best. How was he to blame ? Now that she
was gone he understood how lonely her life must
have been, sitting night after night alone in that
room. His life would be lonely too until he, too,
died, ceased to exist, became a memory — if any-
one remembered him.

It was after nine o'clock when he left the shop.
The night was cold and gloomy. He entered the
Park by the first gate and walked along under the
gaunt trees. He walked through the bleak alleys
where they had walked four years before. She
seemed to be near him in the darkness. At moments
he seemed fo feel her voice touch his ear, her hand
touch his. He stood still to listen. Why had he
withheld life from her ? Why had he sentenced her
to death ? He felt his moral nature falling to pieces.

When he gained the crest of the Magazine Hill he
halted and looked along the river towards Dublin,
the lights of which burned redly and hospitably in
the cold night. He looked down the slope and, at
the base, in the shadow of the wall of the Park,

A PAINFUL CASE 148

he saw some human figures lying. Those venal and
furtive loves filled him with despair. He gnawed
the rectitude of his life ; he felt that he had been
outcast from life's feast. One human being had
seemed to love him and he had denied her life
and happiness : he had sentenced her to ignominy,
a death of shame. He knew that the prostrate
creatures down by the wall were watching him and
wished him gone. No one wanted him ; he was
outcast from life's feast. He turned his eyes to the
grey gleaming river, winding along towards Dublin.
Beyond the river he saw a goods train winding out of
Kingsbridge Station, like a worm with a fiery head
winding through the darkness, obstinately and
laboriously. It passed slowly out of sight ; but still
he heard in his ears the laborious drone of the engine
reiterating the syllables of her name.

He turned back the way he had come, the rhythm
of the engine pounding in his ears. He began to
doubt the reality of what memory told him. He
halted under a tree and allowed the rhythm to die
away. He could not feel her near him in the dark-
ness nor her voice touch his ear. He waited for
some minutes listening. He could hear nothing :
the night was perfectly silent. He listened again :
perfectly silent. He felt that he was alone.

IVY DAY IN THE COMMITTEE
ROOM

Old Jack raked the cinders together with a piece
of cardboard and spread them judiciously over the
whitening dome of coals. When the dome was
thinly covered his face lapsed into darkness but, as
he set himself to fan the fire again, his crouching
shadow ascended the opposite wall and his face
slowly re-emerged into light. It was an old man's
face, very bony and hairy. The moist blue eyes
blinked at the fire and the moist mouth fell open
at times, munching once or twice mechanically when
it closed. When the cinders had caught he laid the
piece of cardboard against the wall, sighed and said :

'That's better now, Mr O'Connor.'

Mr O'Connor, a grey-haired young man, whose
face was disfigured by many blotches and pimples,
had just brought the tobacco for a cigarette into a
shapely cylinder but when spoken to he undid his
handiwork meditatively. Then he began to roll the
tobacco again meditatively and after a moment's
thought decided to lick the paper.

' Did Mr Tierney say when he'd be back ? ' he
asked in a husky falsetto.

'He didn't say.'

Mr O'Connor put his cigarette into his mouth and

144

IVY DAY IN THE COMMITTEE ROOM 145

began to search his pockets. He took out a pack of
thin pasteboard cards.

' I'll get you a match,' said the old man.

' Never mind, this'll do,' said Mr O'Connor.

He selected one of the cards and read what was
printed on it :

MUNICIPAL ELECTIONS

Royal Exchange Ward

Mr Richard J. Tiemey, P.L.G., respectfully solicits
the favour of your vote and influence at the
coming election in the Royal Exchange Ward

Mr O'Connor had been engaged by Tiemey's
agent to canvass one part of the ward but, as the
weather was inclement and his boots let in the wet,
he spent a great part of the day sitting by the fire in
the Committee Room in Wicklow Street with Jack,
the old caretaker. They had been sitting thus since
the short day had grown dark. It was the sixth of
October, dismal and cold out of doors.

Mr O'Connor tore a strip off the card and,
lighting it, lit his cigarette. As he did so the flame
lit up a leaf of dark glossy ivy in the lapel of his coat.
The old man watched him attentively and then,
taking up the piece of cardboard again, began to fan
the fire slowly while his companion smoked.

' Ah, yes,* he said, continuing, ' it's hard to know
what way to bring up children. Now who'd think

146 DUBLINERS

he'd turn out like that I I sent him to the Christian
Brothers and I done what I could for him, and there
he goes boosing about. I tried to make him someway-
decent.'

He replaced the cardboard wearily.

* Only I'm an old man now I'd change his tune
for him. I'd take the stick to his back and beat him
while I could stand over him — as I done many a time
before. The mother, you know, she cocks him up
with this and that. . . .'

' That's what ruins children,' said Mr O'Connor.

' To be sure it is,' said the old man. And little
thanks you get for it, only impudence. He takes
th'upper hand of me whenever he sees I've a sup
taken. What's the world coming to when sons
speaks that way to their father ? '

' What age is he ? ' said Mr O'Connor.

' Nineteen,' said the old man.

' Why don't you put him to something ? '

' Sure, amn't I never done at the drunken bowsy
ever since he left school ? "I won't keep you, ' ' I says.
"You must get a job for yourself." But, sure, it's
worse whenever he gets a job ; he drinks it all'

Mr O'Connor shook his head in sympathy, and the
old man fell silent, gazing into the fire. Someone
opened the door of the room and called out :

' Hello ! Is this a Freemasons' meeting ? '

' Who's that ? ' said the old man.

' What are you doing in the dark ? ' asked a
voice.

' Is that you, Hynes ? ' asked Mr O'Connor.

IVY DAY IN THE COMMITTEE ROOM 147

' Yes. What are you doing in the dark ? ' said Mr
Hynes, advancing into the hght of the fire.

He was a tall slender young man with a light
brown moustache. Imminent little drops of rain
hung at the brim of his hat and the collar of his
jacket-coat was turned up.

* Well, Mat,' he said to Mr O'Connor, ' how goes it?'
Mr O'Connor shook his head. The old man left

the hearth and, after stumbling about the room
returned with two candlesticks which he thrust one
after the other into the fire and carried to the table.
A denuded room came into view and the fire lost all
its cheerful colour. The walls of the room were bare
except for a copy of an election address. In the
middle of the room was a small table on which papers
were heaped.

Mr Hynes leaned against the mantelpiece and
asked :

' Has he paid you yet ? '

'Not yet,' said Mr O'Connor. *I hope to God
he'll not leave us in the lurch to-night.'

Mr Hynes laughed.

* O, he'll pay you. Never fear,' he said.

' I hope he'll look smart about it if he means
business,' said Mr O'Connor.

' What do you think, Jack ? ' said Mr Hynes
satirically to the old man.

The old man returned to his seat by the fire,
saying :

' It isn't but he has it, anyway. Not like the other
tinker.'

148 DUBLINERS

' What other tinker ? ' said Mr Hynes.

' Colgan,' said the old man scornfully.

' Is it because Colgan's a working-man you say
that ? What's the difference between a good honest
bricklayer and a publican — eh ? Hasn't the
working-man as good a right to be in the Corporation
as anyone else — ^ay, and a better right than those
shoneens that are always hat in hand before any
fellow with a handle to his name ? Isn't that so,
Mat ? ' said Mr Hynes, addressing Mr O'Connor.

' I think you're right,' said Mr O'Connor.

' One man is a plain honest man with no hunker-
sliding about him. He goes in to represent the
labour classes. This fellow you're working for only
wants to get some job or other.'

' Of course, the working-classes should be repre-
sented,' said the old man.

' The working-man,' said Mr Hynes, ' gets all
kicks and no halfpence. But it's labour produces
everything. The working-man is not looking for fat
jobs for his sons and nephews and cousins. The
working-man is not going to drag the honour of
Dublin in the mud to please a German monarch.'

' How's that ? ' said the old man.

' Don't you know they want to present an address
of welcome to Edward Rex if he comes here next
year ? What do we want kowtowing to a foreign
king ? '

' Our man won't vote for the address,' said Mr
O'Connor. ' He goes in on the Nationalist ticket.'

' Won't he ? ' said Mr Hynes. ' Wait till you see

IVY DAY IN THE COMMITTEE ROOM 149

whether he will or not. I know him. Is it Tricky
Dicky Tiemey ? '

' By God 1 perhaps you're right, Joe,' said Mr
O'Connor. ' Anyway, I wish he'd turn up with the
sponduhcs.'

The three men fell silent. The old man began to
rake more cinders together. Mr Hynes took off his
hat, shook it and then turned down the collar of his
coat, displaying, as he did so, an ivy leaf in the lapel.

' If this man was alive,' he said, pointing to the
leaf, ' we'd have no talk of an address of welcome.'

' That's true,' said Mr O'Connor.

' Musha, God be with them times 1 ' said the old
man. * There was some life in it then.'

The room was silent again. Then a bustling little
man with a snuffling nose and very cold ears pushed
in the door. He walked over quickly to the fire,
rubbing his hands as if he intended to produce a
spark from them.

' No money, boys,' he said.

' Sit down here, Mr Henchy,' said the old man,
offering him his chair.

' O, don't stir, Jack, don't stir,' said Mr Henchy.

He nodded curtly to Mr Hynes and sat down on
the chair which the old man vacated.

' Did you serve Aungier Street ? ' he asked Mr
O'Connor.

' Yes,' said Mr O'Connor, beginning to search his
pockets for memoranda.

' Did you call on Grimes ? '

' I did.'

150 DUBLINERS

' Well ? How does he stand ? '

' He wouldn't promise. He said : "I won't tell
anyone what way I'm going to vote." But I think
he'll be all right.'

' Why so ? '

' He asked me who the nominators were ; and I told
him. I mentioned Father Burke's name. I think
it'll be all right.'

Mr Henchy began to snuffle and to rub his hands
over the fire at a terrific speed. Then he said :

' For the love of God, Jack, bring us a bit of coal.
There must be scnne left.'

The old man went out of the room.

' It's no go,' said Mr Henchy, shaking his head.
*I asked the little shoeboy, but he said : " O, now,
Mr Henchy, when I see the work going on properly
I won't forget you, you may be sure." Mean little
tinker ! ' Usha, how could he be anything else ? '

' What did I tell you. Mat ? ' said Mr Hynes.
' Tricky Dicky Tierney.'

' O, he's as tricky as they make 'em,' said Mr
Henchy. ' He hasn't got those little pigs' eyes for
nothing. Blast his soul ! Couldn't he pay up like
a man instead of : " O, now, Mr Henchy, I must
speak to Mr Fanning. . . . I've spent a lot of
money " ? Mean little shoeboy of hell ! I suppose
he forgets the time his little old father kept the
hand-me-down shop in Mary's Lane.'

' But is that a fact ? ' asked Mr O'Connor.

' God, yes,' said Mr Henchy. ' Did you never
hear that ? And the men used to go in on Sunday

IVY DAY IN THE COMMITTEE ROOM 151

morning before the houses were open to buy a waist-
coat or a trousers — moya ! But Tricky Dicky's
Uttle old father always had a tricky little black bottle
up in a corner. Do you mind now ? That's that.
That's where he first saw the light.'

The old man returned with a few lumps of coal
which he placed here and there on the fire.

' That's a nice how-do-you-do,' said Mr O'Connor.
' How does he expect us to work for him if he won't
stump up ? '

' I can't help it,' said Mr Henchy. 'I expect to
find the bailiffs in the hall when I go home.'

Mr Hynes laughed and, shoving himself away
from the mantelpiece with the aid of his shoulders,
made ready to leave.

' It'll be all right when King Eddie comes,' he said.
' Well, boys, I'm off for the present. See you later.
'Bye, 'bye.'

He went out of the room slowly. Neither Mr
Henchy nor the old man said anything but, just as
the door was closing, Mr O'Connor who had been
staring moodily into the fire, called out suddenly :

' 'Bye, Joe.'

Mr Henchy waited a few moments and then
nodded in the direction of the door.

' Tell me,' he said across the fire, * what brings our
friend in here ? What does he want ? '

' 'Usha, poor Joe ! ' said Mr O'Connor, throwing
the end of his cigarette into the fire, ' he's hard up
like the rest of us.'

Mr Henchy snuffled vigorously and spat so copiously

152 DUBLINERS

that he nearly put out the fire which uttered a
hissing protest.

' To tell you my private and candid opinion,' he
said, ' I think he's a man from the other camp. He's
a spy of Colgan's if you ask me. " Just go round and
try and find out how they're getting on. They won't
suspect you." Do you twig ? '

' Ah, poor Joe is a decent skin,' said Mr O'Connor.

' His father was a decent respectable man,' Mr
Henchy admitted. * Poor old Larry Hynes ! Many
a good turn he did in his day ! But I'm greatly
afraid our friend is not nineteen carat. Damn it,
I can understand a fellow being hard up but what
I can't understand is a fellow sponging. Couldn't
he have some spark of manhood about him ? '

'He doesn't get a warm welcome from me
when he comes,' said the old man. 'Let him work
for his own side and not come spying around
here.'

*I don't know,' said Mr O'Connor dubiously, as
he took out cigarette-papers and tobacco. ' I think
Joe Hynes is a straight man. He's a clever chap,
too, with the pen. Do you remember that thing he
wrote . . . ? '

' Some of these hillsiders and f enians are a bit too
clever if you ask me,' said Mr Henchy. ' Do you
know what my private and candid opinion is about
some of those little jokers ? I believe half of them
are in the pay of the Castle.'

' There's no knowing,' said the old man.

' O, but I know it for a fact,' said Mr Henchy.

IVY DAY IN THE COMMITTEE ROOM 153

' They're Castle hacks. ... I don't say Hynes. . . .
No, damn it, I think he's a stroke above that. . . .
But there's a certain httle nobleman with a cock-eye
— ^you know the patriot I'm alluding to ? '

Mr O'Connor nodded.

' There's a lineal descendant of Major Sirr for you
if you like ! O, the heart's blood of a patriot 1 That's a
fellow now that'd sell his country for fourpence — ay
— ^and go down on his bended knees and thank the
Almighty Christ he had a country to sell.'

There was a knock at the door.

' Come in 1 ' said Mr Henchy.

A person resembling a poor clergyman or a poor
actor appeared in the doorway. His black clothes
were tightly buttoned on his short body and it was
impossible to say whether he wore a clergyman's
collar or a layman's because the collar of his shabby
frock-coat, the uncovered buttons of which reflected
the candlelight, was turned up about his neck. He
wore a round hat of hard black felt. His face,
shining with raindrops, had the appearance of damp
yellow cheese save where two rosy spots indicated
the cheek-bones. He opened his very long mouth
suddenly to express disappointment and at the same
time opened wide his very bright blue eyes to express
pleasure and surprise.

' O, Father Keon ! ' said Mr Henchy, jumping
up from his chair. ' Is that you ? Come in 1 '

' O, no, no, no 1 ' said Father Keon quickly,
pursing his lips as if he were addressing a child.

' Won't you come in and sit down ? '

154 DUBLINERS

' No, no, no ! ' said Father Keon, speaking in
a discreet indulgent velvety voice. ' Don't let
me disturb you now 1 I'm just looking for Mr
Fanning. . . .'

' He's round at the Black Eagle,' said Mr Henchy.
' But won't you come in and sit down a minute ? '

' No, no, thank you. It was just a little business
matter,' said Father Keon. ' Thank you, indeed.'

He retreated from the doorway and Mr Henchy,
seizing one of the candlesticks, went to the door to
light him downstairs.

' O, don't trouble, I beg ! '

' No, but the stairs is so dark.'

' No, no, I can see. . . . Thank you, indeed.'

' Are you right now ? '

' All right, thanks. . . . Thanks.'

Mr Henchy returned with the candlestick and
put it on the table. He sat down again at the
fire. There was silence for a few moments.

' Tell me, John,' said Mr O'Connor, lighting his
cigarette with another pasteboard card.

'Hm?'

' What is he exactly ? '

' Ask me an easier one,' said Mr Henchy.

' Fanning and himself seem to me very thick.
They're often in Kavanagh's together. Is he a priest
at all ? '

' 'Mmmyes, I believe so. ... I think he's what
you call a blagk sheep. We haven't many of them,
thank God ! but we have a few. . . . He's an
unfortunate man of some kind. . . .'

IVY DAY IN THE COMMITTEE ROOM 155

' And how does he knock it out ? ' asked Mr
O'Connor.

' That's another mystery.'

' Is he attached to any chapel or church or
institution or '

' No,' said Mr Henchy, ' I think he's travelling on
his own account. . . . God forgive me,' he added,
' I thought he was the dozen of stout.'

' Is there any chance of a drink itself ? ' asked
Mr O'Connor.

' I'm dry too,' said the old man.

' I asked that little shoeboy three times,' said
Mr Henchy, ' would he send up a dozen of stout.
I asked him again now but he was leaning on the
counter in his shirt-sleeves having a deep goster with
Alderman Cowley.'

' Why didn't you remind him ? ' asid Mr O'Connor.

' Well, I couldn't go over while he was talking to
Alderman Cowley. I just waited till I caught his
eye, and said : " About that little matter I was
speaking to you about. ..." "That'll be all right,
Mr H.," he said. Yerra, sure the little hop-o'-my-
thumb has forgotten all about it.'

' There's some deal on in that quarter,' said
Mr O'Connor thoughtfully. *I saw the three
of them hard at it yesterday at Suffolk Street
corner.'

' I think I know the little game they're at,' said
Mr Henchy. ' You must owe the City Fathers money
nowadays if you want to be made Lord Mayor.
Then they'll make you Lord Mayor. By God I I'm

156 DUBLINERS

thinking seriously of becoming a City Father my-
self. What do you think ? Would I do for the
job ? '

Mr O'Connor laughed.

' So far as owing money goes. . . .'

'Driving out of the Mansion House,' said Mr
Henchy, ' in all my vermin, with Jack here standing
up behind me in a powdered wig — eh ? '

' And make me your private secretary, John.'

' Yes. And I'll make Father Keon my private
chaplain. We'll have a family party.'

' Faith, Mr Henchy,' said the old man, ' you'd keep
up better style than some of them. I was talking
one day to old Keegan, the porter. "And how do you
like your new master, Pat ? " says I to him. " You
haven't much entertaining now," says I. " Enter-
taining 1 " says he. " He'd live on the smell of an
oil-rag." And do you know what he told me ?
Now, I declare to God, I didn't believe him.'

' What ? ' said Mr Henchy and Mr O'Connor.

' He told me : " What do you think of a Lord Mayor
of Dublin sending out for a pound of chops for his
dinner ? How's that for high living ? " says he.
" Wisha ! wisha," says I. "A pound of chops,"
says he, " coming into the Mansion House."
" Wisha ! " says I, " what kind of people is going at
all now ? " '

At this point there was a knock at the door, and
a boy put in his head.

' What is it ? ' said the old man.

' From the Black Eagle,' said the boy, walking in

IVY DAY IN THE COMMITTEE ROOM 157

sideways and depositing a basket on the floor with
a noise of shaken bottles.

The old man helped the boy to transfer the bottles
from the basket to the table and counted the full
tally. After the transfer the boy put his basket on
his arm and asked :

' Any bottles ? '

' What bottles ? ' said the old man.

' Won't you let us drink them first ? ' said Mr
Henchy.

' I was told to ask for bottles.'

' Come back to-morrow,' said the old man.

* Here, boy ! ' said Mr Henchy, ' will you run over
to O'Farrell's and ask him to lend us a corkscrew
— for ]\Ir Henchy, say. Tell him we won't keep it a
minute. Leave the basket there.'

The boy went out and Mr Henchy began to rub his
hands cheerfully, saying :

' Ah, well, he's not so bad after all. He's as good
as his word, anyhow.'

' There's no tumblers,' said the old man.

' O, don't let that trouble you. Jack,' said Mr
Henchy. ' Many's the good man before now drank
out of the bottle.'

' Anyway, it's better than nothing,' said Mr
O'Connor.

' He's not a bad sort,' said Mr Henchy, * only Fan-
ning has such a loan of him. He means well, you
know, in his own tinpot way.'

The boy came back with the corkscrew. The
old man opened three bottles and was handing

158 DUBLINERS

back the corkscrew when Mr Henchy said to the
boy.

* Would you Hke a drink, boy ? '

' If you please, sir,' said the boy.

The old man opened another bottle grudgingly,
and handed it to the boy.

' What age are you ? ' he asked.

' Seventeen,' said the boy.

As the old man said nothing further the boy took
the bottle, said : ' Here's my best respects, sir, to
Mr Henchy,' drank the contents, put the bottle back
on the table and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
Then he took up the corkscrew and went out of the
door sideways, muttering some form of salutation.

' That's the way it begins,' said the old man.

' The thin end of the wedge,' said Mr Henchy.

The old man distributed the three bottles which
he had opened and the men drank from them
simultaneously. After having drank each placed
his bottle on the mantelpiece within hand's reach
and drew in a long breath of satisfaction.

' Well, I did a good day's work to-day,' said Mr
Henchy, after a pause.

' That so, John ? '

' Yes. I got him one or two sure things in Dawson
Street, Croft on and myself. Between ourselves,
you know, Crofton (he's a decent chap, of course),
but he's not worth a damn as a canvasser. He hasn't
a word to throw to a dog. He stands and looks at
the people while I do the talking.'

Here two men entered the room. One of them was

IVY DAY IN THE COMMITTEE ROOM 159

a very fat man, whose blue serge clothes seemed to
be in danger of falling from his sloping figure. He
had a big face which resembled a young ox's face in
expression, staring blue eyesand a grizzled moustache.
The other man, who was much younger and frailer,
had a thin clean-shaven face. He wore a very high
double collar and a wide-brimmed bowler hat.

' Hello, Crofton ! ' said Mr Henchy to the fat
man. ' Talk of the devil. . . .'

' Where did the boose come from ? ' asked the
young man. ' Did the cow calve ? '

' O, of course, Lyons spots the drink first thing ! '
said Mr O'Connor, laughing.

' Is that the way you chaps canvass,' said Mr
Lyons, ' and Crofton and I out in the cold and rain
looking for votes ? '

' Why, blast your soul,' said Mr Henchy, ' I'd get
more votes in five minutes than you two'd get in a
week.'

' Open two bottles of stout, Jack,' said Mr
O'Connor.

' How can I ? ' said the old man, ' when there's
no corkscrew ? '

' Wait now, wait now ! ' said Mr Henchy, getting
up quickly. ' Did you ever see this little trick ? '

He took two bottles from the table and, carrying
them to the fire, put them on the hob. Then he sat
down again by the fire and took another drink from
his bottle. Mr Lyons sat on the edge of the table,
pushed his hat towards the nape of his neck and
began to swing his legs.

160 DUBLINERS

' Which is my bottle ? ' he asked.

' This lad,' said Mr Henchy.

Mr Crof ton sat down on a box and looked fixedly
at the other bottle on the hob. He was silent for
two reasons. The first reason, sufficient in itself,
was that he had nothing to say ; the second reason
was that he considered his companions beneath
him. He had been a canvasser for Wilkins, the
Conservative, but when the Conservatives had
withdrawn their man and, choosing the lesser of
two evils, given their support to the Nationalist
candidate, he had been engaged to work for Mr
Tierney.

In a few minutes an apologetic ' Pok ! ' was heard
as the cork flew out of Mr Lyons' bottle. Mr Lyons
jumped off the table, went to the fire, took his bottle
and carried it back to the table.

' I was just telling them, Crof ton,' said Mr Henchy,
' that we got a good few votes to-day.'

' Who did you get ? ' asked Mr Lyons.

' Well, I got Parkes for one, and I got Atkinson
for two, and I got Ward of Dawson Street. Fine old
chap he is, too — regular old toff, old Conservative !
" But isn't your candidate a Nationalist ? " said he.
" He's a respectable man," said I. " He's in favour
of whatever will benefit this country. He's a big
ratepayer," I said. "He has extensive house
property in the city and three places of business and
isn't it to his own advantage to keep down the rates ?
He's a prominent and respected citizen," said I, " and
a Poor Law Guardian, and he doesn't belong to any

IVY DAY IN THE COMMITTEE ROOM 161

party, good, bad, or indifferent." That's the way
to talk to 'em.'

' And what about the address to the King ? ' said
Mr Lyons, after drinking and smacking his Hps.

' Listen to me,' said Mr Henchy, ' What we
want in this country, as I said to old Ward, is capital.
The King's coming here will mean an influx of money
into this country. The citizens of Dublin will benefit
by it. Look at all the factories down by the quays
there, idle ! Look at all the money there is in the
country if we only worked the old industries, the
mills, the shipbuilding yards and factories. It's
capital we want.'

' But look here, John,' said Mr O'Connor. ' Why
should we welcome the King of England ? Didn't
Parnell himself . . .'

' Parnell,' said Mr Henchy, ' is dead. Now,
here's the way I look at it. Here's this chap come
to the throne after his old mother keeping him out of
it till the man was grey. He's a man of the world, and
he means well by us. He's a jolly fine decent fellow,
if you ask me, and no damn nonsense about him.
He just says to himself : " The old one never went
to see these wild Irish. By Christ, I'll go myself and
see what they're like." And are we going to insult
the man when he comes over here on a friendly visit ?
Eh ? Isn't that right, Crofton ? '

Mr Crofton nodded his head.

' But after all now,' said Mr Lyons argumenta-
tively, ' King Edward's life, you know, is not the
very . . .'

L

162 DUBLINERS

' Let bygones be bygones,' said Mr Henchy. ' I
admire the man personally. He's just an ordinary
knockabout like you and me. He's fond of his glass of
grog and he's a bit of a rake, perhaps, and he's a good
sportsman. Damn it, can't we Irish play fair ? '

' That's all very fine,' said Mr Lyons. 'But look
at the case of Paniell now.'

' In the name of God,' said Mr Henchy, ' where's
the analogy between the two cases ? '

' What I mean,' said Mr Lyons, ' is we have our
ideals. Why, now, would we welcome a man like
that ? Do you think now after what he did Parnell
was a fit man to lead us ? And why, then, would we
do it for Edward the Seventh ? '

' This is Parnell's anniversary,' said Mr O'Connor,
and don't let us stir up any bad blood. We all
respect him now that he's dead and gone — even the
Conservatives,' he added, turning to Mr Crofton.

Pok ! The tardy cork flew out of Mr Crofton's
bottle. Mr Crofton got up from his box and went
to the fire. As he returned w^ith his capture he said
in a deep voice :

' Our side of the house respects him, because he was
a gentleman.'

' Right you are, Crofton ! ' said Mr Henchy
fiercely. ' He was the only man that could keep that
bag of cats in order. " Down, ye dogs ! Lie down,
ye curs ! " That's the way he treated them. Come
in, Joe ! Come in ! ' he called out, catching sight of
Mr Hynes in the doorway.

Mr Hynes came in slowly.

IVY DAY IN THE COMMITTEE ROOM 163

' Open another bottle of stout, Jack,' said Mr
Henchy. ' O, I forgot there's no corkscrew ! Here,
show me one here and I'll put it at the fire.'

The old man handed him another bottle and he
placed it on the hob.

' Sit down, Joe,' said Mr O'Connor, * we're just
talking about the Chief.'

' Ay, ay ! ' said Mr Henchy.

Mr Hynes sat on the side of the table near Mr
Lyons but said nothing.

' There's one of them, anyhow,' said Mr Henchy,
' that didn't renege him. By God, I'll say for you,
Joe ! No, by God, you stuck to him like a man ! '

' O, Joe,' said Mr O'Connor suddenly. ' Give us
that thing you wrote — do you remember ? Have
you got it on you ? '

' O, ay ! ' said Mr Henchy. ' Give us that.
Did you ever hear that, Crof ton ? Listen to this now :
splendid thing.'

' Go on,' said Mr O'Connor. ' Fire away, Joe.'

Mr Hynes did not seem to remember at once the
piece to which they were alluding but, after reflecting
a while, he said :

* O, that thing is it. . . . Sure, that's old now.'

' Out with it, man ! ' said Mr O'Connor.

' 'Sh, 'sh,' said Mr Henchy. ' Now, Joe ! '

Mr Hynes hesitated a little longer. Then amid
the silence he took off his hat, laid it on the table
and stood up. He seemed to be rehearsing the piece
in his mind. After a rather long pause he announced :

164 DUBLINERS

THE DEATH OF PARNELL

6th October 1891

He cleared his throat once or twice and then
began to recite :

He is dead. Our Uncrowned King is dead.

O, Erin, mourn with grief and woe
For he hes dead whom the fell gang

Of modern hypocrites laid low.

He lies slain by the coward hounds

He raised to glory from the mire ;
And Erin's hopes and Erin's dreams

Perish upon her monarch's pyre.

In palace, cabin or in cot

The Irish heart where'er it be
Is bowed with woe — for he is gone

Who would have wrought her destiny.

He would have had his Erin famed,

The green flag gloriously unfurled.
Her statesmen, bards and warriors raised

Before the nations of the World.

He dreamed (alas, 'twas but a dream ! )

Of Liberty : but as he strove
To clutch that idol, treachery

Sundered him from the thing he loved.

Shame on the coward, caitiff hands

That smote their Lord or with a kiss
Betrayed him to the rabble-rout

Of fawning priests — no friends of his.

May everlasting shame consume

The memory of those who tried
To befoul and smear th' exalted name

Of one who spurned them in his pride.-

IVY DAY IN THE COMMITTEE ROOM 165

He fell as fall the mighty ones.

Nobly undaunted to the last,
And death has now united him

With Erin's heroes of the past.

No sound of strife disturb his sleep !

Calmly he rests : no human pain
Or high ambition spurs him now

The peaks of glory to attain.

They had their way : they laid him low.

But Erin, list, his spirit may
Rise, like the Phoenix from the flames,

When breaks the dawning of the day,

The day that brings us Freedom's reign.

And on that day may Erin well
Pledge in the cup she lifts to Joy

One grief — the memory of Parnell.

Mr Hynes sat down again on the table. When he
had finished his recitation there was a silence and
then a burst of clapping : even Mr Lyons clapped.
The applause continued for a little time. When it
had ceased all the auditors drank from their bottles
in silence.

Pok ! The cork flew out of Mr Hynes' bottle,
but Mr Hynes remained sitting, flushed and bare-
headed on the table. He did not seem to have
heard the invitation.

' Good man, Joe ! ' said Mr O'Connor, taking out
his cigarette papers and pouch the better to hide his
emotion.

' What do you think of that, Crof ton ? ' cried Mr
Henchy. ' Isn't that fine ? What ? '

Mr Crofton said that it was a very fine piece of
writing.

A MOTHER

Mr Holohan, assistant secretary of the Eire Abu
Society, had been walking up and down DubHn for
nearly a month, with his hands and pockets full of
dirty pieces of paper, arranging about the series
of concerts. He had a game leg and for this his
friends called him Hoppy Holohan. He walked
up and down constantly, stood by the hour at
street corners arguing the point and made notes ;
but in the end it was Mrs Kearney who arranged
everything.

Miss Devlin had become Mrs Kearney out of spite.
She had been educated in a high-class convent where
she had learned French and music. As she was
naturally pale and unbending in manner she made
few friends at school. When she came to the age of
marriage she was sent out to many houses where
her playing and her ivory manners were much
admired. She sat amid the chilly circle of her
accomplishments, waiting for some suitor to brave
it and offer her a brilliant life. But the young men
whom she met were ordinary and she gave them
no encouragement, trying to console her romantic
desires by eating a great deal of Turkish Delight
in secret. However, when she drew near the limit
and her friends began to loosen their tongues about

i66

A MOTHER 167

her she silenced them by marrying Mr Kearney, who
was a bootmaker on Ormond Quay.

He was much older than she. His conversation,
which was serious, took place at intervals in his great
brown beard. After the first year of married life
Mrs Kearney perceived that such a man would wear
better than a romantic person but she never put her
own romantic ideas away. He was sober, thrifty
and pious ; he went to the altar every first Friday,
sometimes with her, oftener by himself. But she
never weakened in her religion and was a good wife
to him. At some party in a strange house when she
lifted her eyebrow ever so slightly he stood up to
take his leave and, when his cough troubled him,
she put the eider-down quilt over his feet and made
a strong rum punch. For his part he was a model
father. By paying a small sum every week into a
society he ensured for both his daughters a dowry of
one hundred pounds each when they came to the age
of twenty-four. He sent the elder daughter, Kath-
leen, to a good convent, where she learned French and
music and afterwards paid her fees at the Academy.
Every year in the month of July Mrs Kearney found
occasion to say to some friend :

' My good man is packing us off to Skerries for a
few weeks.'

If it was not Skerries it was Howth or Greystones.

When the Irish Revival began to be appreciable
Mrs Kearney determined to take advantage of her
daughter's name and brought an Irish teacher to the
house. Kathleen and her si§ter sent Irish picture

168 DUBLINERS

postcards to their friends and these friends sent back
other Irish picture postcards. On special Sundays
when Mr Kearney went with his family to the pro-
cathedral a little crowd of people would assemble
after mass at the corner of Cathedral Street. They
were all friends of the Kearneys — ^musical friends or
Nationalist friends ; and, when they had played
every little counter of gossip, they shook hands with
one another all together, laughing at the crossing of
so many hands and said good-bye to one another in
Irish. Soon the name of Miss Kathleen Kearney
began to be heard often on people's lips. People said
that she was very clever at music and a very nice
girl and, moreover, that she was a believer in the
language movement. Mrs Kearney was well content
at this. Therefore she was not surprised when one
day Mr Holohan came to her and proposed that her
daughter should be the accompanist at a series of
four grand concerts which his Society was going to
give in the Antient Concert Rooms. She brought
him into the drawing-room, made him sit down and
brought out the decanter and the silver biscuit-
barrel. She entered heart and soul into the details
of the enterprise, advised and dissuaded ; and
finally a contract was drawn up by which Kathleen
was to receive eight guineas for her services as
accompanist at the four grand concerts.

As Mr Holohan was a novice in such delicate
matters as the wording of bills and the disposing of
items for a programme Mrs Kearney helped him.
She had tact. She knew what artistes should go into

A MOTHER 169

capitals and what artistes should go into small type.
She knew that the first tenor would not like to come
on after Mr Meade's comic turn. To keep the audience
continually diverted she slipped the doubtful items
in between the old favourites. Mr Holohan called
to see her every day to have her advice on some
point. She was invariably friendly and advising —
homely, in fact. She pushed the decanter towards
him, saying :

' Now, help yourself, Mr Holohan ! '
And while he was helping himself she said :
' Don't be afraid ! Don't be afraid of it ! '
Everything went on smoothly. Mrs Kearney
bought some lovely blush-pink charmeuse in Brown
Thomas's to let into the front of Kathleen's dress.
It cost a pretty penny ; but there are occasions when
a little expense is justifiable. She took a dozen of
two-shilling tickets for the final concert and sent
them to those friends who could not be trusted to
come otherwise. She forgot nothing and, thanks
to her, everything that was to be done was
done.

The concerts were to be on Wednesday, Thursday,
Friday and Saturday. When Mrs Kearney arrived
with her daughter at the Antient Concert Rooms on
Wednesday night she did not like the look of things.
A few young men, wearing bright blue badges in their
coats, stood idle in the vestibule ; none of them wore
evening dress. She passed by with her daughter and
a quick glance through the open door of the hall
showed her the cause of the stewards' idleness. At

170 DUBLINERS

first she wondered had she mistaken the hour. No, it
was twenty minutes to eight.

In the dressing-room behind the stage she was
introduced to the secretary of the Society, Mr Fitz-
patrick. She smiled and shook his hand. He was
a Httle man with a white vacant face. She noticed
that he wore his soft brown hat carelessly on the side
of his head and that his accent was flat. He held a
programme in his hand and, while he was talking to
her, he chewed one end of it into a moist pulp. He
seemed to bear disappointments lightly. Mr Holohan
came into the dressing-room every few minutes with
reports from the box-office. The artistes talked
among themselves nervously, glanced from time to
time at the mirror and rolled and unrolled their music.
When it was nearly half -past eight the few people
in the hall began to express their desire to be enter-
tained. Mr Fitzpatrick came in, smiled vacantly
at the room, and said :

' Well now, ladies and gentlemen. I suppose we'd
better open the ball.'

Mrs Kearney rewarded his very flat final syllable
with a quick stare of contempt and then said to her
daughter encouragingly :

' Are you ready, dear ? '

When she had an opportunity she called Mr
Holohan aside and asked him to tell her what it
meant. Mr Holohan did not know what it meant.
He said that the committee had made a mistake in
arranging for four concerts : four was too many.

' And the artistes ! ' said Mrs Kearney. ' Of

A MOTHER 171

course they are doing their best, but really they are
no good.'

Mr Holohan admitted that the artistes were no
good but the committee, he said, had decided to let
the first three concerts go as they pleased and reserve
all the talent for Saturday night. Mrs Kearney said
nothing but, as the mediocre items followed one
another on the platform and the few people in the
hall grew fewer and fewer, she began to regret that
she had put herself to any expense for such a concert.
There was something she didn't like in the look of
things and Mr Fitzpa trick's vacant smile irritated
her very much. However, she said nothing and
waited to see how it would end. The concert expired
shortly before ten and everyone went home quickl}^.

The concert on Thursday night was better attended
but Mrs Kearney saw at once that the house was
filled with paper. The audience behaved indecor-
ously as if the concert were an informal dress re-
hearsal. Mr Fitzpatrick seemed to enjoy himself ; he
was quite unconscious that Mrs Kearney was taking
angry note of his conduct. He stood at the edge of
the screen, from time to time jutting out his head
and exchanging a laugh with two friends in the
comer of the balcony. In the course of the evening
Mrs Kearney learned that the Friday concert was to
be abandoned and that the committee was going to
move heaven and earth to secure a bumper house on
Saturday night. When she heard this she sought
out Mr Holohan. She buttonholed him as he was
limping out quickly with a glass of lemonade for a

172 DUBLINERS

young lady and asked him was it true. Yes, it was
true.

' But, of course, that doesn't alter the contract,'
she said. ' The contract was for four concerts.'

Mr Holohan seemed to be in a hurry ; he advised
her to speak to Mr Fitzpatrick. Mrs Kearney was
now beginning to be alarmed. She called Mr Fitz-
patrick away from his screen and told him that her
daughter had signed for four concerts and that, of
course, according to the terms of the contract, she
should receive the sum originally stipulated for
whether the society gave the four concerts or not.
Mr Fitzpatrick, who did not catch the point at issue
very quickly, seemed unable to resolve the difficulty
and said that he would bring the matter before the
committee. Mrs Kearney's anger began to flutter in
her cheek and she had all she could do to keep from
asking :

' And who is the Cometty pray ? '

But she knew that it would not be ladylike to do
that : so she was silent.

Little boys were sent out into the principal streets
of Dublin early on Friday morning with bundles of
handbills. Special puffs appeared in all the evening
papers reminding the music-loving public of the treat
which was in store for it on the following evening.
Mrs Kearney was somewhat reassured but she thought
well to tell her husband part of her suspicions. He
listened carefully and said that perhaps it would be
better if he went with her on Saturday night. She
agreed. She respected her husband in the same way

A MOTHER 178

as she respected the General Post Office, as something
large, secure and fixed ; and though she knew the
small number of his talents she appreciated his
abstract value as a male. She was glad that he had
suggested coming with her. She thought her plans
over.

The night of the grand concert came. Mrs
Kearney, with her husband and daughter, arrived at
the Antient Concert Rooms three-quarters of an hour
before the time at which the concert was to begin.
By ill luck it was a rainy evening. Mrs Kearney
placed her daughter's clothes and music in charge of
her husband and went all over the building looking
for Mr Holohan or Mr Fitzpa trick. She could find
neither. She asked the stewards was any member
of the committee in the hall and, after a great deal of
trouble, a steward brought out a little woman named
Miss Beirne to whom Mrs Kearney explained that she
wanted to see one of the secretaries. Miss Beirne
expected them any minute and asked could she do
anything. Mrs Kearney looked searchingly at the
oldish face which was screwed into an expression of
trustfulness and enthusiasm and answered :

' No, thank you ! '

The little woman hoped they would have a good
house. She looked out at the rain until the melan-
choly of the wet street effaced all the trustfulness
and enthusiasm from her twisted features. Then she
gave a little sigh and said :

' Ah, well ! We did our best, the dear knows.'

Mrs Kearney had to go back to the di'essing-room.

174 DUBLINERS

The artistes were arriving. The bass and the
second tenor had ah-eady come. The bass, Mr
Duggan, was a slender young man with a scattered
black moustache. He was the son of a hall porter
in an office in the city and, as a boy, he had sung
prolonged bass notes in the resounding hall. From
this humble state he had raised himself until he had
become a first-rate artiste. He had appeared in grand
opera. One night, when an operatic artiste had
fallen ill, he had undertaken the part of the king in
the opera of Maritana at the Queen's Theatre. He
sang his music with great feeling and volume and
was warmly welcomed by the gallery ; but, unfor-
tunately, he marred the good impression by wiping
his nose in his gloved hand once or twice out of
thoughtlessness. He was unassuming and spoke
little. He said yous so softly that it passed unnoticed
and he never drank anything stronger than milk for
his voice' sake. Mr Bell, the second tenor, was a fair-
haired little man who competed every year for prizes
at the Feis Ceoil. On his fourth trial he had been
awarded a bronze medal. He was extremely nervous
and extremely jealous of other tenors and he covered
his nervous jealousy with an ebulHent friendUness.
It was his humour to have people know what an
ordeal a concert was to him. Therefore when he saw
Mr Duggan he went over to him and asked :

' Are you in it too ? '

' Yes,' said Mr Duggan.

Mr Bell laughed at his fellow-sufferer, held out his
hand and said :

A MOTHER 175

' Shake ! '

Mrs Kearney passed by these two young men and
went to the edge of the screen to view the house.
The seats were being filled up rapidly and a pleasant
noise circulated in the auditorium. She came back
and spoke to her husband privately. Their con-
versation was evidently about Kathleen for they
both glanced at her often as she stood chatting to
one of her Nationalist friends, Miss Healy, the
contralto. An unknown solitary woman with a pale
face walked through the room. The women followed
with keen eyes the faded blue dress which was
stretched upon a meagre body. Someone said that
she was Madam Glynn, the soprano.

' I wonder where did they dig her up,' said Kathleen
to Miss Healy. * I'm sure I never heard of her.'

Miss Healy had to smile. Mr Holohan limped
into the dressing-room at that moment and the two
young ladies asked him who was the unknown
woman. Mr Holohan said that she was Madam
Glynn from London. Madam Glynn took her stand
in a corner of the room, holding a roll of music
stiffly before her and from time to time changing the
direction of her startled gaze. The shadow took her
faded dress into shelter but fell revengefully into
the little cup behind her collar-bone. The noise
of the hall became more audible. The first tenor
and the baritone arrived together. They were both
well dressed, stout and complacent and they brought
a breath of opulence among the company.

Mrs Kearney brought her daughter over to them,

176 DUBLINERS

and talked to them amiably. She wanted to be on
good terms with them but, while she strove to be
polite, her eyes followed Mr Holohan in his limping
and devious courses. As soon as she could she
excused herself and went out after him.

'Mr Holohan, I want to speak to you for a
moment,' she said.

They went down to a discreet part of the corridor.
Mrs Kearney asked him when was her daughter going
to be paid. Mr Holohan said that Mr Fitzpatrick
had charge of that. Mrs Kearney said that she
didn't know anything about Mr Fitzpatrick, Her
daughter had signed a contract for eight guineas and
she would have to be paid. Mr Holohan said that it
wasn't his business.

' Why isn't it your business ? ' asked Mrs Kearney.
' Didn't you yourself bring her the contract ? Any-
way, if it's not your business it's my business and
I mean to see to it.'

' You'd better speak to Mr Fitzpatrick,' said Mr
Holohan distantly.

' I don't know anything about Mr Fitzpatrick,'
repeated Mrs Kearney. ' I have my contract, and
I intend to see that it is carried out.'

When she came back to the dressing-room her
cheeks were slightly suffused. The room was lively.
Two men in outdoor dress had taken possession of the
fireplace and were chatting familiarly with Miss
Healy and the baritone. They were the Freeman
men and Mr O'Madden Burke. The Freeman man
had come in to say that he could not wait for the

A MOTHER 177

concert as he had to report the lecture which an
American priest was giving in the Mansion House.
He said they were to leave the report for him at
the Freeman office and he would see that it went in.
He was a grey-haired man, with a plausible voice and
careful manners. He held an extinguished cigar in
his hand and the aroma of cigar smoke floated near
him. He had not intended to stay a moment
because concerts and artistes bored him considerably
but he remained leaning against the mantelpiece.
Miss Healy stood in front of him, talking and laugh-
ing. He was old enough to suspect one reason for
her politeness but young enough in spirit to turn the
moment to account. The warmth, fragrance and
colour of her body appealed to his senses. He was
pleasantly conscious that the bosom which he saw
rise and fall slowly beneath him rose and fell at that
moment for him, that the laughter and fragrance and
wilful glances were his tribute. When he could stay
no longer he took leave of her regretfully.

' O'Madden Burke will write the notice,' he
explained to Mr Holohan, ' and I'll see it in.'

' Thank you very much, Mr Hendrick,' said Mr
Holohan. ' You'll see it in, I know. Now, won't
you have a little something before you go ? '

' I don't mind,' said Mr Hendrick.

The two men went along some tortuous passages
and up a dark staircase and came to a secluded room
where one of the stewards was uncorking bottles for
a few gentlemen. One of these gentlemen was Mr
O'Madden Burke, who had found out the room by

M

178 DUBLINERS

instinct. He was a suave elderly man who
balanced his imposing body, when at rest, upon a
large silk umbrella. His magniloquent western
name was the moral umbrella upon which he
balanced the fine problem of his finances. He was
widely respected.

While Mr Holohan was entertaining the Freeman
man Mrs Kearney was speaking so animatedly to her
husband that he had to ask her to lower her voice.
The conversation of the others in the dressing-room
had become strained. Mr Bell, the first item, stood
ready with his music but the accompanist made no
sign. Evidently something was wrong. Mr Kearney
looked straight before him, stroking his beard,
while Mrs Kearney spoke into Kathleen's ear with
subdued emphasis. From the hall came sounds of
encouragement, clapping and stamping of feet.
The first tenor and the baritone and Miss Healy stood
together, waiting tranquilly, but Mr Bell's nerves
were greatly agitated because he was afraid the
audience would think that he had come late.

Mr Holohan and Mr O'Madden Burke came into
the room. In a moment Mr Holohan perceived the
hush. He went over to Mrs Kearney and spoke with
her earnestly. While they were speaking the noise
in the hall grew louder. Mr Holohan became very
red and excited. He spoke volubly, but Mrs Kearney
said curtly at intervals :

' She won't go on. She must get her eight
guineas. '

Mr Holohan pointed desperately towards the hall

A MOTHER 179

where the audience was clapping and stamping.
He appealed to Mr Kearney and to Kathleen. But
Mr Kearney continued to stroke his beard and
Kathleen looked down, moving the point of her new
shoe : it was not her fault. Mrs Kearney repeated :

' She won't go on without her money.'

After a swift struggle of tongues Mr Holohan
hobbled out in haste. The room was silent. When
the strain of the silence had become somewhat
painful Miss Healy said to the baritone :

' Have you seen Mrs Pat Campbell this week ? '

The baritone had not seen her but he had been told
that she was very fine. The conversation went no
further. The first tenor bent his head and began to
count the links of the gold chain which was extended
across his waist, smiling and humming random notes
to observe the effect on the frontal sinus. From
time to time everyone glanced at Mrs Kearney.

The noise in the auditorium had risen to a clamour
when Mr Fitzpa trick burst into the room, followed
by Mr Holohan, who was panting. The clapping and
stamping in the hall were punctuated by whistling.
Mr Fitzpatrick held a few bank-notes in his hand.
He counted out four into Mrs Kearney's hand and
said she would get the other half at the interval.
Mrs Kearney said :

' This is four shillings short.'

But Kathleen gathered in her skirt and said :
^NoWy Mr Bell,'' to the first item, who was shaking
like an aspen. The singer and the accompanist went
out together. The noise in the hall died away.

180 DUBLINERS

There was a pause of a few seconds : and then the
piano was heard.

The first part of the concert was very successful
except for Madam Glynn's item. The poor lady sang
Killarney in a bodiless gasping voice, with all the
old-fashioned mannerisms of intonation and pro-
nunication which she believed lent elegance to her
singing. She looked as if she had been resurrected
from an old stage-wardrobe and the cheaper parts
of the hall made fun of her high Availing notes. The
first tenor and the contralto, however, brought down
the house. Kathleen played a selection of Irish airs
which was generously applauded. The first part
closed with a stirring patriotic recitation delivered
by a young lady who arranged amateur theatricals.
It was deservedly applauded ; and, when it was
ended, the men went out for the interval, content.

All this time the dressing-room was a hive of excite-
ment. In one corner were Mr Holohan, Mr Fitz-
patrick,Miss Beirne, two of the stewards, the baritone,
the bass, and Mr O'Madden Burke. Mr O'Madden
Burke said it was the most scandalous exhibition
he had ever witnessed. Miss Kathleen Kearney's
musical career was ended in Dublin after that, he said.
The baritone was asked what did he think of Mrs
Kearney's conduct. He did not like to say anything.
He had been paid his money and wished to be at
peace with men. However, he said that Mrs
Kearney might have taken the artistes into considera-
tion. The stewards and the secretaries debated hotly
as to what should be done when the interval came.

A MOTHER 181

'I agree with Miss Beirne,' said Mr O'Madden
Burke. ' Pay her nothing.'

In another corner of the room were Mrs Kearney
and her husband, Mr Bell, Miss Healy and the young
lady who had to recite the patriotic piece. Mrs
Kearney said that the committee had treated her
scandalously. She had spared neither trouble nor
expense and this was how she was repaid.

They thought they had only a girl to deal with
and that, therefore, they could ride roughshod over
her. But she would show them their mistake.
They wouldn't have dared to have treated her like
that if she had been a man. But she would see that
her daughter got her rights : she wouldn't be fooled.
If they didn't pay her to the last farthing she would
make Dubhn ring. Of course she was sorry for the
sake of the artistes. But what else could she do ?
She appealed to the second tenor who said he thought
she had not been well treated. Then she appealed
to Miss Healy. Miss Healy wanted to join the other
group but she did not like to do so because she was
a great friend of Kathleen's and the Kearneys had
often invited her to their house.

As soon as the first part was ended Mr Fitzpatrick
and Mr Holohan went over to Mrs Kearney and told
her that the other four guineas would be paid after
the committee meeting on the following Tuesday and
that, in case her daughter did not play for the second
part, the committee would consider the contract
broken and would pay nothing.

' I haven't seen any committee,' said Mrs Kearney

182 DUBLINERS

angrily. ' My daughter has her contract. She will
get four pounds eight into her hand or a foot she
won't put up on that platform.'

' I'm surprised at you, Mrs Kearney,' said Mr
Holohan. ' I never thought you would treat us this
way.'

' And what way did you treat me ? ' asked Mrs
Kearney.

Her face was inundated with an angry colour and
she looked as if she would attack someone with her
hands.

' I'm asking for my rights,' she said.

' You might have some sense of decency,' said Mr
Holohan.

' Might I, indeed ? . . . And when I ask when
my daughter is going to be paid I can't get a civil
answer.'

She tossed her head and assumed a haughty
voice :

' You must speak to the secretary. It's not my
business. I'm a great fellow fol-the-diddle-I-do.'

' I thought you were a lady,' said Mr Holohan,
walking away from her abruptly.

After that Mrs Kearney's conduct was condemned
on all hands : everyone approved of what the com-
mittee had done. She stood at the door, haggard
with rage, arguing with her husband and daughter,
gesticulating with them. She waited until it was time
for the second part to begin in the hope that the
secretaries would approach her. But Miss Healy
had kindly consented to play one or two accompani-

A MOTHER 183

ments. Mrs Kearney had to stand aside to allow
the baritone and his accompanist to pass up to the
platform. She stood still for an instant like an angry
stone image and, when the first notes of the song
struck her ear, she caught up her daughter's cloak
and said to her husband :

' Get a cab ! '

He went out at once. Mrs Kearney wrapped the
cloak round her daughter and followed him. As she
passed through the doorway she stopped and glared
into Mr Holohan's face.

' I'm not done with you yet,' she said.

' But I'm done with you,' said Mr Holohan.

Kathleen followed her mother meekly. Mr Holo-
han began to pace up and down the room, in order to
cool himself for he felt his skin on fire.

' That's a nice lady ! ' he said. ' O, she's a nice
lady ! '

' You did the proper thing, Holohan,' said Mr
O'Madden Burke, poised upon his umbrella in
approval.

GRACE

Two gentlemen who were in the lavatory at the time
tried to lift him up : but he was quite helpless. He
lay curled up at the foot of the stairs down which
he had fallen. They succeeded in turning him over.
His hat had rolled a few yards away and his clothes
were smeared with the filth and ooze of the floor on
which he had lain, face downwards. His eyes were
closed and he breathed with a grunting noise. A
thin stream of blood trickled from the corner of his
mouth.

These two gentlemen and one of the curates
carried him up the stairs and laid him down again
on the floor of the bar. In two minutes he was sur-
rounded by a ring of men. The manager of the bar
asked everyone who he was and who was with him.
No one knew who he was but one of the curates said
he had served the gentleman with a small rum.

' Was he by himself ? ' asked the manager.

' No, sir. There was two gentlemen with him.'

' And where are they ? '

No one knew ; a voice said :

' Give him air. He's fainted.'

The ring of onlookers distended and closed again
elastically. A dark medal of blood had formed
itself near the man's head on the tessellated floor.

184

GRACE 185

The manager, alarmed by the grey pallor of the
man's face, sent for a policeman.

His collar was unfastened and his necktie undone.
He opened his eyes for an instant, sighed and closed
them again. One of the gentlemen who had carried
him upstairs held a dinged silk hat in his hand. The
manager asked repeatedly did no one know who the
injured man was or where had his friends gone. The
door of the bar opened and an immense constable
entered. A crowd which had followed him down
the laneway collected outside the door, struggling
to look in through the glass panels.

The manager at once began to narrate what he
knew. The constable, a young man with thick
immobile features, listened. He moved his head
slowly to right and left and from the manager to the
person on the floor, as if he feared to be the victim
of some delusion. Then he drew off his glove, pro-
duced a small book from his waist, licked the lead of
his pencil and made ready to indite. He asked in a
suspicious provincial accent :

' Who is the man ? What's his name and address?'

A young man in a cycling-suit cleared his way
through the ring of bystanders. He knelt down
promptly beside the injured man and called for
water. The constable knelt down also to help.
The young man washed the blood from the injured
man's mouth and then called for some brandy. The
constable repeated the order in an authoritative
voice until a curate came running with the glass.
The brandy was forced down the man's throat.

186 DUBLINERS

In a few seconds he opened his eyes and looked about
him. He looked at the circle of faces and then,
understanding, strove to rise to his feet.

' You're all right now ? ' asked the young man in
the cycHng-suit.

' Sha, 's nothing,' said the injured man, trying to
stand up.

He was helped to his feet. The manager said
something about a hospital and some of the by-
standers gave advice. The battered silk hat was
placed on the man's head. The constable asked :

' Wliere do you live ? '

The man, without answering, began to twirl the
ends of his moustache. He made light of his accident.
It was nothing, he said : only a little accident. He
spoke very thickly.

' Where do you live ? ' repeated the constable.

The man said they were to get a cab for him.
While the point was being debated a tall agile gentle-
man of fair complexion, wearing a long yellow ulster,
came from the far end of the bar. Seeing the
spectacle he called out :

* Hallo, Tom, old man ! What's the trouble ? '

* Sha, 's nothing,' said the man.

The new-comer surveyed the deplorable figure
before him and then turned to the constable
saying :

' It's all right, constable. I'll see him home.'

The constable touched his helmet and answered :

' All right, Mr Power 1 '

' Come now, Tom,' said Mr Power, taking his

GRACE 187

friend by the arm. ' No bones broken. What ?
Can you walk ? '

The young man in the cycHng-suit took the man
by the other arm and the crowd divided.

' How did you get yourself into this mess ? ' asked
Mr Power.

' The gentleman fell down the stairs,' said the
young man.

' I' 'ery 'ueh o'liged to you, sir,' said the injured
man.

'Not at all.'

' 'ant' we have a little . . . ? '

' Not now. Not now.'

The three men left the bar and the crowd sifted
through the doors into the laneway. The manager
brought the constable to the stairs to inspect the
scene of the accident. They agreed that the gentle-
man must have missed his footing. The customers
returned to the counter and a curate set about
removing the traces of blood from the floor.

Wlien they came out into Grafton Street Mr Power
whistled for an outsider. The injured man said again
as well as he could :

' I' 'ery 'uch o'liged to you, sir. I hope we'll 'eet
again, 'y na'e is Kernan.'

The shock and the incipient pain had partly
sobered him.

' Don't mention it,' said the young man.

They shook hands. Mr Kernan was hoisted on
to the car and, while Mr Power was giving directions
to the carman, he expressed his gratitude to the young

188 DUBLINERS

man and regretted that they could not have a Uttle
drink together.

' Another time,' said the young man.

The ear drove off towards Westmoreland Street.
As it passed the Ballast Office the clock showed half-
past nine. A keen east wind hit them blowing from
the mouth of the river. Mr Kernan was huddled
together with cold. His friend asked him to tell how
the accident had happened.

' I 'an't, 'an,' he answered, ' 'y 'ongue is hurt.'

' Show.'

The other leaned over the well of the car and
peered into Mr Kernan's mouth but he could not see.
He struck a match and, sheltering it in the shell of
his hands, peered again into the mouth which Mr
Kernan opened obediently. The swaying movement
of the car brought the match to and from the opened
mouth. The lower teeth and gums were covered with
clotted blood and a minute piece of the tongue seemed
to have been bitten off. The match was blown out.

' That's ugly,' said Mr Power.

' Sha, 's nothing,' said Mr Kernan, closing his
mouth and pulling the collar of his filthy coat across
his neck.

Mr Kernan was a commercial traveller of the old
school which believed in the dignity of its calling.
He had never been seen in the city without a silk
hat of some decency and a pair of gaiters. By grace
of these two articles of clothing, he said, a man
could always pass muster. He carried on the tradi-
tion of his Napoleon, the great Blackwhite, whose

GRACE 189

memory he evoked at times by legend and mimicry.
Modern business methods had spared him only so far
as to allow him a little office in Crowe Street on the
window blind of which was written the name of his
firm with the address — London, E.G. On the mantel-
piece of this Httle office a little leaden battalion of
canisters was drawn up and on the table before the
window stood four or five china bowls which were
usually half full of a black liquid. From these bowls
Mr Kernan tasted tea. He took a mouthful, drew it
up, saturated his palate with it and then spat it forth
into the grate. Then he paused to judge.

Mr Power, a much younger man, was employed in
the Royal Irish Constabulary Office in Dublin Castle.
The arc of his social rise intersected the arc of his
friend's decline but Mr Kernan's decline was mitigated
by the fact that certain of those friends who had
known him at his highest point of success still
esteemed him as a character. Mr Power was one
of these friends. His inexplicable debts were a
byword in his circle ; he was a debonair young
man.

The car halted before a small house on the Glasnevin
road and Mr Kernan was helped into the house.
His wife put him to bed while Mr Power sat down-
stairs in the kitchen asking the children where they
went to school and what book they were in. The
children — two girls and a boy, conscious of their
father's helplessness and of their mother's absence,
began some horseplay with him. He was surprised
at their manners and at their accents and his brow

190 DUBLINERS

grew thoughtful. After a while Mrs Kernan entered
the kitchen, exclaiming :

' Such a sight 1 O, he'll do for himself one day
and that's the holy alls of it. He's been drinking
since Friday.'

Mr Power was careful to explain to her that he
was not responsible, that he had come on the scene
by the merest accident. Mrs Kernan, remembering
Mr Power's good offices during domestic quarrels
as well as many small, but opportune loans, said :

' O, you needn't tell me that, Mr Power. I know
you're a friend of his not like some of those others he
does be with. They're all right so long as he has
money in his pocket to keep him out from his wife and
family. Nice friends ! Who was he with to-night,
I'd like to know ? '

Mr Power shook his head but said nothing.

' I'm so sorry,' she continued, ' that I've nothing
in the house to offer you. But if you wait a minute
I'll send round to Fogarty's at the corner.'

Mr Power stood up.

' We were waiting for him to come home with the
money. He never seems to think he has a home at all.'

' O, now, Mrs Kernan,' said Mr Power ' we'll make
him turn over a new leaf. I'll talk to Martin. He's
the man. We'll come here one of these nights and
talk it over.'

She saw him to the door. The carman was
stamping up and down the footpath, and swinging his
arms to warm himself.

' It's very kind of you to bring him home,' she said.

GRACE 191

' Not at all, ' said Mr Power.

He got up on the car. As it drove off he raised
his hat to her gaily.

' We'll make a new man of him,' he said. ' Good-
night, Mrs Keman.'

Mrs Kernan's puzzled eyes watched the car till
it was out of sight. Then she withdrew them, went
into the house and emptied her husband's pockets.

She was an active, practical woman of middle age.
Not long before she had celebrated her silver wedding
and renewed her intimacy with her husband by
waltzing with him to Mr Power's accompaniment.
In her days of courtship Mr Kernan had seemed to
her a not ungallant figure : and she still hurried to
the chapel door whenever a wedding was reported
and, seeing the bridal pair, recalled with vivid
pleasure how she had passed out of the Star of the
Sea Church in Sandymount, leaning on the arm of a
jovial well-fed man who was dressed smartly in a
frock-coat and lavender trousers and carried a silk
hat gracefully balanced upon his other arm. After
three weeks she had found a wife's life irksome and,
later on, when she was beginning to find it unbearable,
she had become a mother. The part of mother
presented to her no insuperable difficulties and for
twenty-five years she had kept house shrewdly for
her husband. Her two eldest sons were launched.
One was in a draper's shop in Glasgow and the other
was clerk to a tea-merchant in Belfast. They were
good sons, wrote regularly and sometimes sent

192 DUBLINERS

home money. The other children were still at
school.

Mr Kernan sent a letter to his office next day and
remained in bed. She made beef -tea for him and
scolded him roundly. She accepted his frequent
intemperance as part of the climate, healed him
dutifully whenever he was sick and always tried
to make him eat a breakfast. There were worse
husbands. He had never been violent since the
boys had grown up and she knew that he would walk
to the end of Thomas Street and back again to book
even a small order.

Two nights after his friends came to see him.
She brought them up to his bedroom, the air of
which was impregnated with a personal odour, and
gave them chairs at the fire. Mr Kernan's tongue,
the occasional stinging pain of which had made him
somewhat irritable during the day, became more
polite. He sat propped up in the bed by pillows
and the little colour in his puffy cheeks made them
resemble warm cinders. He apologised to his guests
for the disorder of the room but at the same time
looked at them a little proudly, with a veteran's
pride.

He was quite unconscious that he was the victim
of a plot which his friends, Mr Cunningham, Mr
M'Coy and Mr Power had disclosed to Mrs Kernan
in the parlour. The idea had been Mr Power's but
its development was entrusted to Mr Cunningham.
Mr Kernan came of Protestant stock and, though he
had been converted to the Catholic faith at the time

GRACE 193

of his marriage, he had not been in the pale of the
Church for twenty years. He was fond, moreover,
of giving side-thrusts at CathoHcism.

Mr Cunningham was the very man for such a ease.
He was an elder colleague of Mr Power. His own
domestic Hf e was not very happy. People had great
sympathy with him for it was known that he had
married an unpresentable woman who was an
incurable drunkard. He had set up house for her six
times ; and each time she had pawned the furniture
on him.

Everyone had respect for poor Martin Cunningham.
He was a thoroughly sensible man, influential and
intelligent. His blade of human knowledge, natural
astuteness particularised by long association with
cases in the police courts, had been tempered by
brief immersions in the waters of general philosophy.
He was well informed. His friends bowed to his
opinions and considered that his face was like
Shakespeare's.

When the plot had been disclosed to her Mrs
Keman had said :

' I leave it all in your hands, Mr Cunningham.'

After a quarter of a century of married life she had
very few illusions left. Religion for her was a habit
and she suspected that a man of her husband's age
would not change greatly before death. She was
tempted to see a curious appropriateness in his
accident and, but that she did not wish to seem
bloody-minded, she would have told the gentlemen
that Mr Keman's tongue would not suffer by being

194 DUBLINERS

shortened. However, Mr Cunningham was a
capable man ; and reUgion was religion. The
scheme might do good and, at least, it could do
no harm. Her beliefs were not extravagant. She
believed steadily in the Sacred Heart as the most
generally useful of all Cathohc devotions and ap-
proved of the sacraments. Her faith was bounded
by her kitchen but, if she was put to it, she could
believe also in the banshee and in the Holy Ghost.

The gentlemen began to talk of the accident.
Mr Cunningham said that he had once known a
similar case. A man of seventy had bitten off a
piece of his tongue during an epileptic fit and the
tongue had filled in again so that no one could see a
trace of the bite.

' Well, I'm not seventy,' said the invalid.

' God forbid,' said Mr Cunningham.

' It doesn't pain you now ? ' asked Mr M'Coy.

Mr M'Coy had been at one time a tenor of some
reputation. His wife, who had been a soprano,
still taught young children to play the piano at low
terms. His line of life had not been the shortest
distance between two points and for short periods he
had been driven to live by his wits. He had been
a clerk in the Midland Railway, a canvasser for
advertisements for The Irish Times and for The Free-
marCs Journal, a town traveller for a coal firm on
commission, a private inquiry agent, a clerk in the
office of the Sub-Sheriff and he had recently become
secretary to the City Coroner. His new office made
him professionally interested in Mr Keman's case.

GRACE 195

' Pain ? Not much,' answered Mr Keman.
' But it's so sickening. I feel as if I wanted to
retch off.'

' That's the boose,' said Mr Cunningham firmly.

' No,' said Mr Kernan. ' I think I caught a cold
on the car. There's something keeps coming into
my throat, phlegm or '

' Mucus,' said Mr M'Coy.

' It keeps coming like from down in my throat ;
sickening thing.'

' Yes, yes,' said Mr M'Coy, * that's the thorax.'

He looked at Mr Cunningham and Mr Power
at the same time with an air of challenge. Mr
Cunningham nodded his head rapidly and Mr Power
said :

' Ah, well, all's well that ends well'

' I'm very much obliged to you, old man,' said
the invahd.

Mr Power waved his hand.

' Those other two fellows I was with '

' Who were you with ? ' asked Mr Cunningham.

' A chap. I don't know his name. Damn it now,
what's his name? Little chap with sandy hair. . . .'

' And who else ? '

' Harford.'

' Hm,' said Mr Cunningham.

When Mr Cunningham made that remark people
were silent. It was known that the speaker had
secret sources of information. In this case the
monosyllable had a moral intention. Mr Harford
sometimes formed one of a little detachment which

196 DUBLINERS

left the city shortly after noon on Sunday with the
purpose of arriving as soon as possible at some public-
house on the outskirts of the city where its members
duly qualified themselves as bona-fide travellers.
But his fellow-travellers had never consented to
overlook his origin. He had begun life as an obscure
financier by lending small sums of money to workmen
at usurious interest. Later on he had become the
partner of a very fat short gentleman, Mr Goldberg,
in the Liffey Loan Bank. Though he had never
embraced more than the Jewish ethical code his
fellow-Catholics, whenever they had smarted in
person or by proxy under his exactions, spoke of him
bitterly as an Irish Jew and an illiterate and saw
divine disapproval of usury made manifest through
the person of his idiot son. At other times they
remembered his good points.

' I wonder where did he go to,' said Mr Kernan.

He wished the details of the incident to remain
vague. He wished his friends to think there had
been some mistake, that Mr Harford and he had
missed each other. His friends, who knew quite
well Mr Harford's manners in drinking, were silent.
Mr Power said again :

' All's well that ends w^ell.'

Mr Kernan changed the subject at once.

' That was a decent young chap, that medical
fellow,' he said. ' Only for him '

' O, only for him,' said Mr Power, ' it might have
been a case of seven days without the option of a
fine.'

GRACE 197

' Yes, yes,' said Mr Kernan, trying to remember.
' I remember now there was a policeman. Decent
young f ellow, he seemed. How did it happen at all ? '

' It happened that you were peloothered, Tom,'
said Mr Cunningham gravely.

' True bill,' said Mr Kernan, equally gravely.

' I suppose you squared the constable, Jack,' said
MrM'Coy.

Mr Power did not relish the use of his Christian
name. He was not strait-laced but he could not
forget that Mr M'Coy had recently made a crusade
in search of valises and portmanteaus to enable
Mrs M'Coy to fulfil imaginary engagements in the
country. More than he resented the fact that he had
been victimised he resented such low playing of the
game. He answered the question, therefore, as if
Mr Kernan had asked it.

The narrative made Mr Kernan indignant. He
was keenly conscious of his citizenship, wished to
live with his city on terms mutually honourable and
resented any affront put upon him by those whom
he called country bumpkins.

' Is this what we pay rates for ? ' he asked. ' To
feed and clothe these ignorant bostooms . . . and
they're nothing else.'

Mr Cunningham laughed. He was a Castle official
only during office hours.

' How could they be anything else, Tom ? ' he said.

He assumed a thick provincial accent and said in a
tone of command :

* 65, catch your cabbage 1 '

198 DUBLINERS

Everyone laughed. Mr M'Coy, who wanted to
enter the conversation by any door, pretended that
he had never heard the story. Mr Cunningham said :

' It is supposed — ^they say, you know — to take
place in the depot where they get these thundering
big country fellows, omadhauns, you know, to drill.
The sergeant makes them stand in a row against the
wall and hold up their plates.'

He illustrated the story by grotesque gestures.

' At dinner, you know. Then he has a bloody
big bowl of cabbage before him on the table and a
bloody big spoon like a shovel. He takes up a wad
of cabbage on the spoon and pegs it across the room
and the poor devils have to try and catch it on their
plates ; 65, catch your cabbage.''

Everyone laughed again : but Mr Kernan was
somewhat indignant still. He talked of writing a
letter to the papers.

' These yahoos coming up here,' he said, ' think
they can boss the people. I needn't tell you, Martin,
what kind of men they are.'

Mr Cunningham gave a qualified assent.

' It's like everything else in this world,' he said.
' You get some bad ones and you get some good
ones.'

* O yes, you get some good ones, I admit,' said Mr
Kernan, satisfied.

' It's better to have nothing to say to them,' said
Mr M'Coy. * That's my opinion ! '

Mrs Kernan entered the room and, placing a tray
on the table, said :

GRACE 199

' Help yourselves, gentlemen.'

Mr Power stood up to officiate, offering her his
chair. She declined it, saying that she was ironing
downstairs, and, after having exchanged a nod with
Mr Cunningham behind Mr Power's back, prepared
to leave the room. Her husband called out to her :

' And have you nothing for me, duckie ? '

' O, you ! The back of my hand to you 1 ' said
Mrs Kernan tartly.

Her husband called after her :

' Nothing for poor little hubby ! '

He assumed such a comical face and voice that
the distribution of the bottles of stout took place
amid general merriment.

The gentlemen drank from their glasses, set the
glasses again on the table and paused. Then Mr
Cunningham turned towards Mr Power and said
casually :

' On Thursday night, you said. Jack ? '

' Thursday, yes,' said Mr Power.

' Righto ! ' said Mr Cunningham promptly.

' We can meet in MAuley's,' said Mr M'Coy.
' That'll be the most convenient place.'

' But we mustn't be late,' said Mr Power earnestly,
' because it is sure to be crammed to the doors.'

' We can meet at half-seven,' said Mr M'Coy.

' Righto ! ' said Mr Cunningham.

' Half -seven at M'Auley's be it ! '

There was a short silence. Mr Kernan waited
to see whether he would be taken into his friends'
confidence. Then he asked :

200 DUBLINERS

'What's in the wind?'

' O, it's nothing,' said Mr Cunningham. ' It's
only a httle matter that we're arranging about for
Thursday.'

' The opera, is it ? ' said Mr Kernan.

' No, no,' said Mr Cunningham in an evasive tone,
' it's just a httle . . . spiritual matter.'

' O,' said Mr Kernan.

There was silence again. Then Mr Power said,
point blank :

' To tell you the truth, Tom, we're going to make
a retreat.'

' Yes, that's it,' said Mr Cunningham, ' Jack and
I and M'Coy here — we're all going to wash the pot.'

He uttered the metaphor with a certain homely
energy and, encouraged by his own voice, proceeded :

' You see, we may as well all admit we're a nice
collection of scoundrels, one and all. I say, one and
all,' he added with gruff charity and turning to Mr
Power. ' Own up now ! '

' I own up,' said Mr Power.

' And I own up,' said Mr M'Coy.

' So we're going to wash the pot together,' said
Mr Cunningham.

A thought seemed to strike him. He turned
suddenly to the invalid and said :

' D'ye know what, Tom, has just occurred to me ?
You might join in and we'd have a four-handed reel.'

' Good idea,' said Mr Power. ' The four of us
together.'

Mr Kernan was silent. The proposal conveyed

GRACE 201

very little meaning to his mind but, understanding
that some spiritual agencies were about to concern
themselves on his behalf, he thought he owed it to
his dignity to show a stiff neck. He took no part in
the conversation for a long while but listened, with
an air of calm enmity, while his friends discussed the
Jesuits.

' I haven't such a bad opinion of the Jesuits,' he
said, intervening at length. ' They're an educated
order. I believe they mean well too.'

' They're the grandest order in the Church, Tom,'
said Mr Cunningham, with enthusiasm. ' The
General of the Jesuits stands next to the Pope.'

'There's no mistake about it,' said Mr M'Coy,
' if you want a thing well done and no flies about
it you go to a Jesuit. They're the boyos have
influence. I'll tell you a case in point. . . .'

' The Jesuits are a fine body of men,' said Mr Power.

' It's a curious thing,' said Mr Cunningham, ' about
the Jesuit Order. Every other order of the Church
had to be reformed at some time or other but the
Jesuit Order was never once reformed. It never fell
away.'

' Is that so ? ' asked Mr M'Coy.

' That's a fact,' said Mr Cunningham. ' That's
history.'

' Look at their church, too,' said Mr Power.
' Look at the congregation they have.'

' The Jesuits cater for the upper classes,' said
Mr M'Coy.

' Of course,' said Mr Power.

202 DUBLINERS

' Yes,' said Mr Kernan. ' That's why I have a
feeling for them. It's some of those secular priests,
ignorant, bumptious '

' They're all good men,' said Mr Cunningham,
' each in his own way. The Irish priesthood is
honoured all the world over.'

' O yes,' said Mr Power.

'Not like some of the other priesthoods on the
continent,' said Mr M'Coy, ' unworthy of the name.'

' Perhaps you're right,' said Mr Kernan, relenting.

' Of course I'm right,' said Mr Cunningham.
' I haven't been in the world all this time and seen
most sides of it without being a judge of character.'

The gentlemen drank again, one following another's
example. Mr Kernan seemed to be weighing some-
thing in his mind. He was impressed. He had a
high opinion of Mr Cunningham as a judge of
character and as a reader of faces. He asked for
particulars.

' O, it's just a retreat, you know,' said Mr
Cunningham. ' Father Purdon is giving it. It's
for business men, you know.'

' He won't be too hard on us, Tom,' said Mr Power
persuasively.

' Father Purdon ? Father Purdon ? ' said the
invahd.

' O, you must know him, Tom,' said Mr Cunning-
ham stoutly. ' Fine jolly fellow ! He's a man of
the world like ourselves.'

' Ah, . . . yes. I think I know him. Rather
red face ; tall.'

GRACE 208

'That's the man.'

' And tell me, Martin. . . . Is he a good preacher? '

' Munno. . . . It's not exactly a sermon, you

know. It's just a kind of a friendly talk, you know,

in a common-sense way.'

Mr Kernan deliberated. Mr M*Coy said :

' Father Tom Burke, that was the boy ! '

' O, Father Tom Burke,' said Mr Cunningham,

* that was a born orator. Did you ever hear him,
Tom?'

' Did I ever hear him ! ' said the invalid, nettled.

* Rather ! I heard him. . . .'

' And yet they say he wasn't much of a theologian,'
said Mr Cunningham.

' Is that so ? ' said Mr M*Coy.

' O, of course, nothing wrong, you know. Only
sometimes, they say, he didn't preach what was
quite orthodox.'

' Ah ! ... he was a splendid man,' said Mr M'Coy.

' I heard him once,' Mr Kernan continued. ' I
forget the subject of his discourse now. Crofton
and I were in the back of the . . . pit, you know
. . . the '

' The body,' said Mr Cunningham.

' Yes, in the back near the door. I forget now
what. . . . O yes, it was on the Pope, the late Pope.
I remember it well. Upon my word it was magni-
ficent, the style of the oratory. And his voice !
God ! hadn't he a voice ! The Prisoner of the Vatican,
he called him. I remember Crofton saying to me
when we came out '

204 DUBLINERS

' But he's an Orangeman, Crof ton, isn't he ? ' said
Mr Power.

' Course he is,' said Mr Kernan, ' and a damned
decent Orangeman too. We went into Butler's in
Moore Street — ^faith, I was genuinely moved, tell
you the God's truth — and I remember well his very
words. Kernan, he said, we worship at different altars,
he said, hut our belief is the same. Struck me as
very well put.'

' There's a good deal in that,' said Mr Power.
' There used always be crowds of Protestants in the
chapel when Father Tom was preaching.'

' There's not much difference between us,' said Mr
M'Coy. ' We both beUeve in '

He hesitated for a moment.

' .... in the Redeemer. Only they don't
beheve in the Pope and in the mother of God.'

' But, of course,' said Mr Cunningham quietly and
effectively, ' our religion is the religion, the old,
original faith.'

' Not a doubt of it,' said Mr Kernan warmly.

Mrs Kernan came to the door of the bedroom and
announced :

' Here's a visitor for you ! '

' Who is it ? '

' Mr Fogarty.'

' O, come in ! come in ! '

A pale oval face came forward into the light. The
arch of its fair trailing moustache was repeated in the
fair eyebrows looped above pleasantly astonished
eyes. Mr Fogarty was a modest grocer. He had

GRACE 205

failed in business in a licensed house in the city
because his financial condition had constrained him
to tie himself to second-class distillers and brewers.
He had opened a small shop on Glasnevin Road
where, he flattered himself, his manners would
ingratiate him with the housewives of the district.
He bore himself with a certain grace, complimented
little children and spoke with a neat enunciation.
He was not without culture.

Mr Fogarty brought a gift with him, a half -pint of
special whisky. He inquired politely for Mr Kernan,
placed his gift on the table and sat down with the
company on equal terms. Mr Kernan appreciated
the gift all the more since he was aware that there
was a small account for groceries unsettled between
him and Mr Fogarty. He said :

' I wouldn't doubt you, old man. Open that,
Jack, will you ? '

Mr Power again officiated. Glasses were rinsed
and five small measures of whisky were poured out.
This new influence enlivened the conversation. Mr
Fogarty, sitting on a small area of the chair, was
specially interested.

' Pope Leo XHI.,' said Mr Cunningham, ' was one
of the lights of the age. His great idea, you know,
was the union of the Latin and Greek Churches.
That was the aim of his life.'

' I often heard he was one of the most intellectual
men in Europe,' said Mr Power. ' I mean apart from
his being Pope.'

* So he was,' said Mr Cunningham, ' if not the most

206 DUBLINERS

so. His motto, you know, as Pope was Lux upon Lux
— Light upon LighV

' No, no,' said Mr Fogarty eagerly. ' I think
you're wrong there. It was Lux in Tenebris, I think
— Light in Darkness,^

' O yes,' said Mr M'Coy, ' Tenebrae.'

' Allow me,' said Mr Cunningham positively, ' it
was Lux upon Lux. And Pius IX. his predecessor's
motto was Crux upon Crux — that is, Cross upon
Cross — to show the difference between their two
pontificates.'

The inference was allowed. Mr Cunningham
continued.

' Pope Leo, you know, was a great scholar and a
poet.'

' He had a strong face,' said Mr Kernan.

' Yes,' said Mr Cunningham. ' He wrote Latin
poetry.'

' Is that so ? ' said Mr Fogarty.

Mr M'Coy tasted his whisky contentedly and shook
his head with a double intention, saying :

' That's no joke, I can tell you.'

' We didn't learn that, Tom,' said Mr Power,
following Mr M 'Coy's example, ' when we went to
the penny-a-week school.'

' There was many a good man went to the penny-a-
week school with a sod of turf under his oxter,' said
Mr Keman sententiously. ' The old system was the
best : plain honest education. None of your modern
trumpery. . . .'

' Quite right,' said Mr Power.

GRACE 207

' No superfluities,' said Mr Fogarty.

He enunciated the word and then drank gravely.

'I remember reading,' said Mr Cunningham,
' that one of Pope Leo's poems was on the invention
of the photograph — in Latin, of course.'

' On the photograph ! ' exclaimed Mr Kernan.

' Yes,' said Mr Cunningham.

He also drank from his glass.

'Well, you know,' said Mr M'Coy, 'isn't the
photograph wonderful when you come to think
of it ? '

' O, of course,' said Mr Power, ' great minds can
see things.'

' As the poet says : Great minds are very near to
madness,'' said Mr Fogarty.

Mr Kernan seemed to be troubled in mind. He
made an effort to recall the Protestant theology on
some thorny points and in the end addressed Mr
Cunningham.

'Tell me, Martin,' he said. 'Weren't some of
the popes — of course, not our present man, or
his predecessor, but some of the old popes — not
exactly . . . you know . . . up to the knocker ? '

There was a silence. Mr Cunningham said :

' O, of course, there were some bad lots. . . . But
the astonishing thing is this. Not one of them, not
the biggest drunkard, not the most . . . out-and-out
ruffian, not one of them ever preached ex cathedra
a word of false doctrine. Now isn't that an astonish-
ing thing ? '

' That is,' said Mr Kernan.

208 DUBLINERS

' Yes, because when the Pope speaks ex cathedra,'*
Mr Fogarty explained, ' he is infallible.'

' Yes,' said Mr Cunningham.

' O, I know about the infallibility of the Pope. I
remember I was younger then. ... Or was it
that ? '

Mr Fogarty interrupted. He took up the bottle
and helped the others to a little more. Mr M'Coy,
seeing that there was not enough to go roimd, pleaded
that he had not finished his first measure. The
others accepted under protest. The light music of
whisky falling into glasses made an agreeable inter-*
lude.

' What's that you were saying, Tom ? ' asked Mr
MCoy.

' Papal infallibility,' said Mr Cunningham, ' that
was the greatest scene in the whole history of the
Church.'

' How was that, Martin ? ' asked Mr Power.

Mr Cunningham held up two thick fingers.

' In the sacred college, you know, of cardinals
and archbishops and bishops there were two men
who held out against it while the others were all
for it. The whole conclave except these two was
unanimous. No ! They wouldn't have it ! '

'Ha!' saidMrM^Coy.

' And they were a German cardinal by the name
of Dolling ... or Dowling . . . or '

' Dowling was no German, and that's a sure five,'
said Mr Power, laughing.

'Well, this great German cardinal, whatever

GRACE 209

his name was, was one ; and the other was John
MacHale.'

' What ? ' cried Mr Keman. ' Is it John of
Tuam ? '

' Are you sure of that now ? ' asked Mr Fogarty
dubiously. 'I thought it was some Italian or
American.'

' John of Tuam,' repeated Mr Cunningham, ' was
the man.'

He drank and the other gentlemen followed his
lead. Then he resumed :

' There they were at it, all the cardinals and bishops
and archbishops from all the ends of the earth and
these two fighting dog and devil until at last the Pope
himself stood up and declared infallibility a dogma
of the Church ex cathedra. On the very moment
John MacHale, who had been arguing and arguing
against it, stood up and shouted out with the voice
of a lion: ''Credo!'''

' I believe ! ' said Mr Fogarty.

' Credo ! ' said Mr Cunningham. ' That showed
the faith he had. He submitted the moment the
Pope spoke.'

' And what about Dowling ? ' asked Mr M'Coy.

' The German cardinal wouldn't submit. He left
the church.'

Mr Cunningham's words had built up the vast
image of the church in the minds of his hearers.
His deep raucous voice had thrilled them as it uttered
the word of beUef and submission. When Mrs
Keman came into the room drying her hands she
o

210 DUBLINERS

came into a solemn company. She did not disturb
the silence, but leaned over the rail at the foot of the
bed.

' I once saw John MacHale,' said Mr Kernan,
' and I'll never forget it as long as I live.'

He turned towards his wife to be confirmed.

' I often told you that ? '

Mrs Kernan nodded.

' It was at the unveiling of Sir John Gray's statue.
Edmund Dwyer Gray was speaking, blathering away,
and here was this old fellow, crabbed-looking old
chap, looking at him from under his bushy eyebrows.'

Mr Kernan knitted his brows and, lowering his head
like an angry bull, glared at his wife.

' God ! ' he exclaimed, resuming his natural face,
' I never saw such an eye in a man's head. It was
as much as to say : / have you properly taped, my lad.
He had an eye like a hawk.'

' None of the Grays was any good,' said Mr Power.

"JThere was a pause again. Mr Power turned to Mrs
Kernan and said with abrupt joviality :

' Well, Mrs Kernan, we're going to make your man
here a good holy pious and God-fearing Roman
Catholic'

He swept his arm round the company inclusively.

' We're all going to make a retreat together and
confess our sins — and God knows we want it badly.'

' I don't mind,' said Mr Kernan, smiling a little
nervously.

Mrs Kernan thought it would be wiser to conceal
her satisfaction. So she said :

GRACE 211

' I pity the poor priest that has to listen to your
tale.'

Mr Keman's expression changed.

' If he doesn't like it,' he said bluntly, ' he can . . .
do the other thing. I'll just tell him my little tale of
woe. I'm not such a bad fellow '

Mr Cunningham intervened promptly.

' We'll all renounce the devil,' he said, ' together,
not forgetting his works and pomps.'

' Get behind me, Satan ! ' said Mr Fogarty, laugh-
ing and looking at the others.

Mr Power said nothing. He felt completely out-
generalled. But a pleased expression flickered
across his face.

' All we have to do,' said Mr Cunningham, ' is
to stand up with lighted candles in our hands and
renew our baptismal vows.'

' O, don't forget the candle, Tom,' said Mr M'Coy,
' whatever you do.'

' What ? ' said Mr Keman. ' Must I have a
candle ? '

' O yes,' said Mr Cunningham.

* No, damn it all,' said Mr Keman sensibly, ' I
draw the line there. I'll do the job right enough.
I'll do the retreat business and confession, and . . .
all that business. But ... no candles ! No, damn
it all, I bar the candles ! '

He shook his head with farcical gravity.

' Listen to that ! ' said his wife.

' I bar the candles,' said Mr Kernan, conscious
of having created an effect on his audience and

212 DUBLINERS

continuing to shake his head to and fro. 'I bar
the magic-lantern business.'

Everyone laughed heartily.

' There's a nice Catholic for you ! ' said his wife.

' No candles ! ' repeated Mr Kernan obdurately.
' That's off ! '

The transept of the Jesuit Church in Gardiner
Street was almost full ; and still at every moment
gentlemen entered from the side-door and, directed
by the lay -brother, walked on tiptoe along the aisles
until they found seating accommodation. The
gentlemen were all well dressed and orderly. The
light of the lamps of the church fell upon an assembly
of black clothes and white collars, relieved here and
there by tweeds, on dark mottled pillars of green
marble and on lugubrious canvases. The gentlemen
sat in the benches, having hitched their trousers
slightly above their knees and laid their hats in
security. They sat well back and gazed formally at
the distant speck of red light which was suspended
before the high altar.

In one of the benches near the pulpit sat Mr
Cunningham and Mr Kernan. In the bench behind
sat Mr M'Coy alone : and in the bench behind him
sat Mr Power and Mr Fogarty. Mr M'Coy had tried
unsuccessfully to find a place in the bench with the
others and, when the party had settled down in the
form of a quincunx, he had tried unsuccessfully to
make comic remarks. As these had not been well
received he had desisted. Even he was sensible of

GRACE 218

the decorous atmosphere and even he began to
respond to the reUgious stimulus. In a whisper
Mr Cunningham drew Mr Kernan's attention to Mr
Harford, the moneylender, who sat some distance
off, and to Mr Fanning, the registration agent and
mayor maker of the city, who was sitting immediately
under the pulpit beside one of the newly elected
councillors of the ward. To the right sat old
Michael Grimes, the owner of three pawnbroker's
shops, and Dan Hogan's nephew, who was up for the
job in the Town Clerk's office. Farther in front sat
Mr Hendrick, the chief reporter of The Freeman's
Journal^ and poor O'Carroll, an old friend of Mr
Kernan's, who had been at one time a considerable
commercial figure. Gradually, as he recognised
familiar faces, Mr Keman began to feel more at home.
His hat, which had been rehabilitated by his wife,
rested upon his knees. Once or twice he pulled down
his cuffs with one hand while he held the brim of his
hat lightly, but firmly, with the other hand.

A powerful-looking figure, the upper part of
which was draped with a white surplice, was observed
to be struggling up into the pulpit. Simultaneously
the congregation unsettled, produced handkerchiefs
and knelt upon them with care. Mr Kernan followed
the general example. The priest's figure now stood
upright in the pulpit, two-thirds of its bulk, crowned
by a massive red face, appearing above the balustrade.

Father Purdon knelt down, turned towards the
red speck of light and, covering his face with his
hands, prayed. After an interval he uncovered his

214 DUBLINERS

face and rose. The congregation rose also and
settled again on its benches. Mr Kernan restored
his hat to its original position on his knee and
presented an attentive face to the preacher. The
preacher turned back each wide sleeve of his surplice
with an elaborate large gesture and slowly surveyed
the array of faces. Then he said :

' For the children of this world are wiser in their
generation than the children of light Wherefore
make unto yourselves friends out of the mammon of
iniquity so that when you die they may receive you
into everlasting dwellings.^

Father Purdon developed the text with resonant
assurance. It was one of the most difficult texts
in all the Scriptures, he said, to interpret properly.
It was a text which might seem to the casual
observer at variance with the lofty morality else-
where preached by Jesus Christ. But, he told his
hearers, the text had seemed to him specially adapted
for the guidance of those whose lot it was to lead the
life of the world and who yet wished to lead that life
not in the manner of worldlings. It was a text for
business men and professional men. Jesus Christ,
with His divine understanding of every cranny of
our human nature, understood that all men were
not called to the religious life, that by far the vast
majority were forced to live in the world and, to a
certain extent, for the world : and in this sentence He
designed to give them a word of counsel, setting

GRACE 215

before them as exemplars in the religious life those
very worshippers of Manmon who were of all men the
least solicitous in matters religious.

He told his hearers that he was there that evening
for no terrifying, no extravagant purpose ; but as
a man of the world speaking to his fellow-men. He
came to speak to business men and he would speak
to them in a businesslike way. If he might use the
metaphor, he said, he was their spiritual accountant ;
and he wished each and every one of this hearers to
open his books, the books of his spiritual life, and see
if they tallied accurately with conscience.

Jesus Christ was not a hard taskmaster. He
understood our little failings, understood the weak-
ness of our poor fallen nature, understood the
temptations of this life. We might have had, we all
had from time to time, our temptations : we might
have, we all had, our failings. But one thing only,
he said, he would ask of his hearers. And that was :
to be straight and manly with God. If their accounts
tallied in every point to say :

' Well, I have verified my accounts. I find all
well.'

But if, as might happen, there were some dis-
crepancies, to admit the truth, to be frank and say
like a man :

' Well, I have looked into my accounts. I find
this wrong and this wrong. But, with God's grace,
I will rectify this and this. I will set right my
accounts.'

THE DEAD

Lily, the caretaker's daughter, was literally run
off her feet. Hardly had she brought one gentleman
into the little pantry behind the office on the ground
floor and helped him off with his overcoat than the
wheezy hall-door bell clanged again and she had to
scamper along the bare hallway to let in another guest.
It was well for her she had not to attend to the ladies
also. But Miss Kate and Miss Julia had thought of
that and had converted the bathroom upstairs into
a ladies' dressing-room. Miss Kate and Miss Julia
were there, gossiping and laughing and fussing,
walking after each other to the head of the stairs,
peering down over the banisters and calling down to
Lily to ask her who had come.

It was always a great affair, the Misses Morkan's
annual dance. Everybody who knew them came
to it, members of the family, old friends of the
family, the members of Julia's choir, any of Kate's
pupils that were grown up enough and even some
of Mary Jane's pupils too. Never once had it fallen
fiat. For years and years it had gone off in splendid
style as long as any one could remember ; ever since
Kate and Julia, after the death of their brother Pat,
had left the house in Stoney Batter and taken Mary

216

THE DEAD 217

Jane, their only niece, to live with them in the dark
gaunt house on Usher's Island, the upper part of
which they had rented from Mr Fulham, the corn-
factor on the ground floor. That was a good thirty
years ago if it was a day. Mary Jane, who was then
a httle girl in short clothes, was now the main prop of
the household for she had the organ in Haddington
Road. She had been through the Academy and gave
a pupils' concert every year in the upper room of the
Antient Concert Rooms. Many of her pupils
belonged to better-class families on the Kingstown
and Dalkey line. Old as they were, her aunts also
did their share. Julia, though she was quite grey,
was still the leading soprano in Adam and Eve's,
and Kate, being too feeble to go about much, gave
music lessons to beginners on the old square piano
in the back room. Lily, the caretaker's daughter,
did housemaid's work for them. Though their life
was modest they believed in eating well ; the best
of everything: diamond-bone sirloins, three-shilling
tea and the best bottled stout. But Lily seldom made
a mistake in the orders so that she got on well with
her three mistresses. They were fussy, that was all.
But the only thing they would not stand was back
answers.

Of course they had good reason to be fussy on
such a night. And then it was long after ten o'clock
and yet there was no sign of Gabriel and his wife.
Besides they were dreadfully afraid that Freddy
Malins might turn up screwed. They would not
wish for worlds that any of Mary Jane's pupils should

218 DUBLINERS

see him under the influence ; and when he was Uke
that it was sometimes very hard to manage him.
Freddy Malins always came late but they wondered
what could be keeping Gabriel : and that was what
brought them every two minutes to the banisters
to ask Lily had Gabriel or Freddy come.

' O, Mr Conroy,' sai^ Lily to Gabriel when she
opened the door for him, ' Miss Kate and Miss Julia
thought you were never coming. Good-night, Mrs
Conroy.'

' I'll engage they did,' said Gabriel, ' but they
forget that my wife here takes three mortal hours
to dress herself.'

He stood on the mat, scraping the snow from
his goloshes, while Lily led his wife to the foot of the
stairs and called out :

'Miss Kate, here's Mrs Conroy.'

Kate and Julia came toddling down the dark
stairs at once. Both of them kissed Gabriel's wife,
said she must be perished alive and asked was Gabriel
with her.

' Here I am as right as the mail. Aunt Kate ! Go
on up. I'll follow,' called out Gabriel from the
dark.

He continued scraping his feet vigorously while
the three women went upstairs, laughing, to the
ladies' dressing-room. A light fringe of snow lay
like a cape on the shoulders of his overcoat and
hke toecaps on the toes o his goloshes ; and, as the
buttons of his overcoat slipped with a squeaking
noise through the snow-stiffened frieze, a cold

THE DEAD 219

fragrant air from out-of-doors escaped from crevices
and folds.

' Is it snowing again, Mr Conroy ? ' asked Lily*

She had preceded him into the pantry to help
him off with his overcoat. Gabriel smiled at the
three syllables she had given his surname and glanced
at her. She was a slim, growing girl, pale in com-
plexion and with hay-coloured hair. The gas in
the pantry make her look still paler. Gabriel had
known her when she was a child and used to sit on
the lowest step nursing a rag doll.

' Yes, Lily,' he answered, ' and I think we're in
for a night of it.'

He looked up at the pantry ceiling, which was
shaking with the stamping and shuffling of feet
on the floor above, listened for a moment to the
piano and then glanced at the girl, who was folding
his overcoat carefully at the end of a shelf.

' Tell me, Lily,' he said in a friendly tone, ' do
you still go to school ? '

' O no, sir,' she answered. ' I'm done schooling
this year and more.'

' O, then,' said Gabriel gaily,' I suppose we'll be
going to your wedding one of these fine days with
your young man, eh ? '

The girl glanced back at him over her shoulder
and said with great bitterness :

* The men that is now is only all palaver and
what they can get out of you.'

Gabriel coloured as if he felt he had made a mistake
and, without looking at her, kicked off his goloshes

220 DUBLINERS

and flicked actively with his muffler at his patent-
leather shoes.

He was a stout tallish young man. The high
colour of his cheeks pushed upwards even to his
forehead where it scattered itself in a few formless
patches of pale red ; and on his hairless face there
scintillated restlessly the polished lenses and bright
gilt rims of the glasses which screened his delicate
and restless eyes. His glossy black hair was parted
in the middle and brushed in a long curve behind
his ears where it curled slightly beneath the groove
left by his hat.

When he had flicked lustre into his shoes he stood
up and pulled his waistcoat down more tightly on
his plmnp body. Then he took a coin rapidly from
his pocket.

' O Lily,' he said, thrusting it into her hands,
' it's Christmas-time, isn't it ? Just . . . here's a
little. . . .'

He walked rapidly towards the door.

' O no, sir ! ' cried the girl, following him. ' Really,
sir, I wouldn't take it.'

' Christmas - time ! Christmas - time ! ' said
Gabriel, almost trotting to the stairs and waving
his hand to her in deprecation.

The girl, seeing that he had gained the stairs,
called out after him :

' Well, thank you, sir.'

He waited outside the drawing-room door imtil
the waltz should finish, listening to the skirts that
swept against it and to the shuffling of feet. He was

THE DEAD 221

still discomposed by the girl's bitter and sudden
retort. It had cast a gloom over him which he tried
to dispel by arranging his cuffs and the bows of his
tie. Then he took from his waistcoat pocket a little
paper and glanced at the headings he had made for
his speech. He was undecided about the lines from
Robert Browning for he feared they would be above
the heads of his hearers. Some quotation that they
could recognise from Shakespeare or from the Melodies
would be better. The indelicate clacking of the
men's heels and the shuffling of their soles reminded
him that their grade of culture differed from his.
He would only make himself ridiculous by quoting
poetry to them which they could not understand.
They would think that he was airing his superior
education. He would fail with them just as he had
failed with the girl in the pantry. He had taken up
a wrong tone. His whole speech was a mistake from
first to last, an utter failure.

Just then his aunts and his wife came out of the
ladies' dressing-room. His aunts were two small
plainly dressed old women. Aunt Julia was an
inch or so the taller. Her hair, drawn low over the
tops of her ears, was grey ; and grey also, with
darker shadows, was her large flaccid face. Though
she was stout in build and stood erect her slow eyes
and parted lips gave her the appearance of a woman
who did not know where she was or where she was
going. Aunt Kate was more vivacious. Her face,
healthier than her sister's, was all puckers and creases,
like a shrivelled red apple, and her hair, braided in

i

222 DUBLINERS

the same old-fashioned way, had not lost its ripe nut
colour.

They both kissed Gabriel frankly. He was their
favourite nephew, the son of their dead elder sister,
Ellen, who had married T. J. Conroy of the Port
and Docks.

* Gretta tells me you're not going to take a cab
back to Monkstown to-night, Gabriel,' said Aunt
Kate.

' No,' said Gabriel, turning to his wife, ' we had
quite enough of that last year, hadn't we ? Don't
you remember. Aunt Kate, what a cold Gretta got
out of it ? Cab windows rattling all the way, and
the east wind blowing in after we passed Merrion.
Very jolly it was. Gretta caught a dreadful
cold.'

Aunt Kate frowned severely and nodded her head
at every word.

' Quite right, Gabriel, quite right,' she said. * You
can't be too careful.'

' But as for Gretta there,' said Gabriel, ' she'd
walk home in the snow if she were let.'

Mrs Conroy laughed.

'Don't mind him, Aunt Kate,' she said. 'He's
really an awful bother, what with green shades for
Tom's eyes at night and making him do the dumb-
bells, and forcing Eva to eat the stirabout. The
poor child ! And she simply hates the sight of it ! . . .
O, but you'll never guess what he makes me wear
now ! '

She broke out into a peal of laughter and glanced

THE DEAD 223

at her husband, whose admiring and happy eyes
had been wandering from her dress to her face and
hair. The two aimts laughed heartily too, for
Gabriel's solicitude was a standing joke with them.

' Gk)loshes ! ' said Mrs Conroy. * That's the latest.
Whenever it's wet underfoot I must put on my
goloshes. To-night even he wanted me to put them
on, but I wouldn't. The next thing he'll buy me will
be a diving suit.'

Gabriel laughed nervously and patted his tie
reassuringly while Aimt Kate nearly doubled herself,
so heartily did she enjoy the joke. The smile soon
faded from Aunt Julia's face and her mirthless eyes
were directed towards her nephew's face. After a
pause she asked :

' And what are goloshes, Gabriel ? '

' Goloshes, Julia ! ' exclaimed her sister. ' Good-
ness me, don't you know what goloshes are ? You
wear them over your . . . over your boots, Gretta,
isn't it ? '

' Yes,' said Mrs Conroy. ' Guttapercha things.
We both have a pair now. Gabriel says everyone
wears them on the continent.'

' O, on the continent,' murmured Aimt Julia,
nodding her head slowly.

Gabriel knitted his brows and said, as if he were
slightly angered :

' It's nothing very wonderful but Gretta thinks
it very funny because she says the word reminds
her of Christy Minstrels.'

* But tell me, Gabriel,' said Aunt Kate, with brisk

■

224 DUBLINERS

tact. 'Of course, you've seen about the room.
Gretta was saying . . .'

' O, the room is all right,' replied Gabriel. ' I've
taken one in the Gresham.'

' To be sure,' said Aunt Kate, ' by far the best
thing to do. And the children, Gretta, you're not
anxious about them ? '

' O, for one night,' said Mrs Conroy. ' Besides,
Bessie will look after them.'

'To be sure,' said Aunt Kate again. 'What a
comfort it is to have a girl like that, one you can
depend on ! There's that Lily, I'm sure I don't
know what has come over her lately. She's not the
girl she was at all.'

Gabriel was about to ask his aunt some questions
on this point but she broke off suddenly to gaze
after her sister who had wandered down the stairs
and was craning her neck over the banisters.

' Now, I ask you,' she said, almost testily, ' where
is Julia going. Julia ! Julia ! Where are you
going ? '

Julia, who had gone half way down one flight,
came back and announced blandly :

' Here's Freddy.'

At the same moment a clapping of hands and a
final flourish of the pianist told that the waltz had
ended. The drawing-room door was opened from
within and some couples came out. Aunt Kate
drew Gabriel aside hurriedly and whispered into
his ear :

' Slip down, Gabriel, like a good fellow and see if

THE DEAD 225

he's all right, and don't let him up if he's screwed.
I'm sure he's screwed. I'm sure he is.'

Gabriel went to the stairs and listened over the
banisters. He could hear two persons talking in
the pantry. Then he recognised Freddy Mahns'
laugh. He went down the stairs noisily.

' It's such a relief,' said Aunt Kate to Mrs Conroy,
' that Gabriel is here. I always feel easier in my
mind when he's here. . . . Julia, there's Miss Daly
and Miss Power will take some refreshment. Thanks
for your beautiful waltz, Miss Daly. It made lovely
time.'

A tall wizen-faced man, with a stiff grizzled mous-
tache and swarthy skin, who was passing out with
his partner said :

' And may we have some refreshment, too. Miss
Morkan ? '

' Julia,' said Aunt Kate summarily, ' and here's
Mr Browne and Miss Furlong. Take them in, Julia,
with Miss Daly and Miss Power.'

* I'm the man for the ladies,' said Mr Browne,
pursing his lips until his moustache bristled and
smiling in all his wrinkles. ' You know. Miss Morkan,
the reason they are so fond of me is '

He did not fmish his sentence, but, seeing that
Aunt Kate was out of earshot, at once led the three
young ladies into the back room. The middle of the
room was occupied by two square tables placed end
to end, and on these Aunt Julia and the caretaker
were straightening and smoothing a large cloth.
On the sideboard were arrayed dishes and plates,
p

226 DUBLINERS

and glasses and bundles of knives and forks and
spoons. The top of the closed square piano served
also as a sideboard for viands and sweets. At a
smaller sideboard in one corner two young men were
standing, drinking hop-bitters.

Mr Browne led his charges thither and invited
them all, in jest, to some ladies' punch, hot, strong
and sweet. As they said they never took anything
strong he opened three bottles of lemonade for
them. Then he asked one of the young men to
move aside, and, taking hold of the decanter, filled
out for himself a goodly measure of whisky. The
young men eyed him respectfully while he took a
trial sip.

' God help me,' he said, smiHng, ' it's the doctor's
orders.'

His wizened face broke into a broader smile, and
the three young ladies laughed in musical echo to
his pleasantry, swaying their bodies to and fro, with
nervous jerks of their shoulders. The boldest said :

' O, now, Mr Browne, I'm sure the doctor never
ordered anything of the kind.'

Mr Browne took another sip of his whisky and said,
with sidling mimicry :

* Well, you see, I'm like the famous Mrs Cassidy,
who is reported to have said : " Now, Mary Grimes,
if I don't take it, make me take it, for I feel I want
it." '

His hot face had leaned forward a little too con-
fidentially and he had assumed a very low Dublin
accent so that the young ladies, with one instinct,

THE DEAD 227

received his speech in silence. Miss Furlong, who
was one of Mary Jane's pupils, asked Miss Daly
what was the name of the pretty waltz she had
played ; and Mr Browne, seeing that he was ignored,
turned promptly to the two yoimg men who were
more appreciative.

A red-faced young woman, dressed in pansy,
came into the room, excitedly clapping her hands
and crying :

' Quadrilles ! Quadrilles ! '

Close on her heels came Aunt Kate, crying :

' Two gentlemen and three ladies, Mary Jane ! '

' O, here's Mr Bergin and Mr Kerrigan,' said Mary
Jane. 'Mr Kerrigan, will you take Miss Power?
Miss Furlong, may I get you a partner, Mr Bergin.
O, that'll just do now.'

' Three ladies, Mary Jane,' said Aunt Kate.

The two young gentlemen asked the ladies if they
might have the pleasure, and Mary Jane turned to
Miss Daly.

' O, Miss Daly, you're really awfully good, after
playing for the last two dances, but really we're so
short of ladies to-night.'

' I don't mind in the least. Miss Morkan.'

' But I've a nice partner for you, Mr Bartell
D'Arcy, the tenor. I'll get him to sing later on.
All Dublin is raving about him.'

' Lovely voice, lovely voice ! ' said Aunt Kate.

As the piano had twice begun the prelude to the
first figure Mary Jane led her recruits quickly from
the room. They had hardly gone when Aunt JuHa

228 DUBLINERS

wandered slowly into the room, looking behind her
at something.

* What is the matter, Julia ? ' asked Aunt Kate
anxiously. ' Who is it ? '

Julia, who was carrying in a column of table-
napkins, turned to her sister and said, simply, as if
the question had surprised her :

' It's only Freddy, Kate, and Gabriel with him.'

In fact right behind her Gabriel could be seen
piloting Freddy Malins across the landing. The
latter, a young man of about forty, was of Gabriel's
size and build, with very round shoulders. His face
was fleshy and pallid, touched with colour only at the
thick hanging lobes of his ears and at the wide wings
of his nose. He had coarse features, a blunt nose,
a convex and receding brow, tumid and protruded
lips. His heavy-lidded eyes and the disorder of his
scanty hair made him look sleepy. He was laughing
heartily in a high key at a story which he had been
telling Gabriel on the stairs and at the same time
rubbing the knuckles of his left fist backwards and
forwards into his left eye.

' Good-evening, Freddy,' said Aunt Julia.

Freddy Malins bade the Misses Morkan good-
evening in what seemed an offhand fashion by
reason of the habitual catch in his voice and then,
seeing that Mr Browne was grinning at him from
the sideboard, crossed the room on rather shaky
legs and began to repeat in an undertone the story
he had just told to Gabriel.

' He's not so bad, is he ? ' said Aunt Kate to Gabriel.

THE DEAD 229

Gabriel's brows were dark but he raised them
quickly and answered :

' O no, hardly noticeable.'

' Now, isn't he a terrible fellow ! ' she said. ' And his
poor mother made him take the pledge on New Year's
Eve. But come on, Gabriel, into the drawing-room.'

Before leaving the room with Gabriel she signalled
to Mr Browne by frowning and shaking her fore-
finger in warning to and fro. Mr Browne nodded
in answer and, when she had gone, said to Freddy
Malins :

'Now, then, Teddy, I'm going to fill you out a
good glass of lemonade just to buck you up.'

Freddy Malins, who was nearing the climax of
his story, waved the offer aside impatiently but
Mr Browne, having first called Freddy Malins'
attention to a disarray in his dress, filled out and
handed him a full glass of lemonade. Freddy
Malins' left hand accepted the glass mechanically,
his right hand being engaged in the mechanical
readjustment of his dress. Mr Browne, whose face
was once more wrinkling with mirth, poured out for
himself a glass of whisky while Freddy Malins
exploded, before he had well reached the climax
of his story, in a kink of high-pitched bronchitic
laughter and, setting down his untasted and over-
flowing glass, began to rub the knuckles of his left
fist backwards and forwards into his left eye, repeat-
ing words of his last phrase as well as his fit of
laughter would allow him.

230 DUBLINERS

Gabriel could not listen while Mary Jane was
playing her Academy piece, full of runs and difficult
passages, to the hushed drawing-room. He liked
music but the piece she was playing had no melody
for him and he doubted whether it had any melody
for the other listeners, though they had begged
Mary Jane to play something. Four young men,
who had come from the refreshment- room to stand
in the doorway at the soimd of the piano, had gone
away quietly in couples after a few minutes. The
only persons who seemed to follow the music were
Mary Jane herself, her hands racing along the key-
board or lifted from it at the pauses like those of a
priestess in momentary imprecation, and Aunt Kate
standing at her elbow to turn the page.

Gabriel's eyes, irritated by the floor, which
glittered with beeswax under the heavy chandelier,
wandered to the wall above the piano. A picture
of the balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet himg there
and beside it was a picture of the two murdered
princes in the Tower which Aunt Julia had worked
in red, blue and bro\Mi wools when she was a girl.
Probably in the school they had gone to as girls that
kind of work had been taught for one year. His
mother had worked for him as a birthday present a
waistcoat of purple tabinet, with little foxes' heads
upon it, lined with brown satin and having round
mulberry buttons. It was strange that his mother
had had no musical talent though Aunt Kate used
to call her the brains carrier of the Morkan family.
Both she and Julia had always seemed a little proud

THE DEAD 231

of their serious and matronly sister. Her photo-
graph stood before the pierglass. She held an open
book on her knees and was pointing out something
in it to Constantine who, dressed in a man-o'-war
suit, lay at her feet. It was she who had chosen
the names for her sons for she was very sensible
of the dignity of family life. Thanks to her,
Constantine was now senior curate in Balbriggan
and, thanks to her, Gabriel himself had taken his
degree in the Royal University. A shadow passed
over his face as he remembered her sullen opposition
to his marriage. Some slighting phrases she had
used still rankled in his memory ; she had once
spoken of Gretta as being country cute and that was
not true of Gretta at all. It was Gretta who had
nursed her during all her last long illness in their
house at Monkstown.

He knew that Mary Jane must be near the end of
her piece for she was playing again the opening
melody with runs of scales after every bar and
while he waited for the end the resentment died
down in his heart. The piece ended with a trill
of octaves in the treble and a final deep octave
in the bass. Great applause greeted Mary Jane as,
blushing and rolling up her music nervously, she
escaped from the room. The most vigorous clapping
came from the four young men in the doorway
who had gone away to the refreshment- room at the
beginning of the piece but had come back when the
piano had stopped.

Lancers were arranged. Gabriel found himself

232 DUBLINERS

partnered with Miss Ivors. She was a frank-
mannered talkative young lady, with a freckled
face and prominent brown eyes. She did not wear
a low-cut bodice and the large brooch which was
fixed in the front of her collar bore on it an Irish
device and motto.

When they had taken their places she said
abruptly :

' I have a crow to pluck with you.'

' With me ? ' said Gabriel.

She nodded her head gravely.

' What is it ? ' asked Gabriel, smiling at her
solemn manner.

' Who is G. C. ? ' answered Miss Ivors, turning
her eyes upon him.

Gabriel coloured and was about to knit his brows,
as if he did not understand, when she said bluntly :

' O, innocent Amy ! I have found out that you
write for The Daily Express. Now, aren't you
ashamed of yourself ? '

' Why should I be ashamed of myself ? ' asked
Gabriel, blinking his eyes and trying to smile.

'Well, I'm ashamed of you,' said Miss Ivors
frankly. ' To say you'd write for a paper like that.
I didn't think you were a West Briton.'

A look of perplexity appeared on Gabriel's face.
It was true that he wrote a literary column every
Wednesday in The Daily Express, for which he
was paid fifteen shillings. But that did not make
him a West Briton surely. The books he received
for review were almost more welcome than the

THE DEAD 288

paltry cheque. He loved to feel the covers and
turn over the pages of newly printed books. Nearly
every day when his teaching in the college was
ended he used to wander down the quays to the
second-hand booksellers, to Hickey's on Bachelor's
Walk, to Webb's or Massey's on Aston's Quay,
or to O'Clohissey's in the by-street. He did not
know how to meet her charge. He wanted to say
that literature was above politics. But they were
friends of many years' standing and their careers
had been parallel, first at the university and then as
teachers : he could not risk a grandiose phrase with
her. He continued blinking his eyes and trying to
smile and murmured lamely that he saw nothing
political in writing reviews of books.

When their turn to cross had come he was still
perplexed and inattentive. Miss Ivors promptly
took his hand in a warm grasp and said in a soft
friendly tone :

' Of course, I was only joking. Come, we cross
now.'

When they were together again she spoke of the
University question and Gabriel felt more at ease.
A friend of hers had shown her his review of
Browning's poems. That was how she had found out
the secret : but she liked the review immensely.
Then she said suddenly :

' O, Mr Conroy, will you come for an excursion
to the Aran Isles this summer ? We're going to
stay there a whole month. It will be splendid out
in the Atlantic. You ought to come. Mr Clancy

284 DUBLINERS

is coming, and Mr Kilkelly and Kathleen Kearney.
It would be splendid for Gretta too if she'd come.
She's from Connacht, isn't she ? '

' Her people are,' said Gabriel shortly.

' But you will come, won't you ? ' said Miss Ivors,
laying her warm hand eagerly on his arm.

' The fact is,' said Gabriel, ' I have just arranged
to go '

' Go where ? ' asked Miss Ivors.

* Well, you know, every year I go for a cycling
tour with some fellows and so '

' But where ? ' asked Miss Ivors.

' Well, we usually go to France or Belgium or
perhaps Germany,' said Gabriel awkwardly -

' And why do you go to France and Belgium,' said
Miss Ivors, ' instead of visiting your own land ? '

' Well,' said Gabriel, ' it's partly to keep in touch
with the languages and partly for a change.'

' And haven't you your own language to keep in
touch with — Irish ? ' asked Miss Ivors.

' Well,' said Gabriel, ' if it comes to that, you know,
Irish is not my language.'

Their neighbours had turned to listen to the
cross-examination. Gabriel glanced right and left
nervously and tried to keep his good humour under
the ordeal which was making a blush invade his
forehead.

' And haven't you your own land to visit,' con-
tinued Miss Ivors, ' that you know nothing of, your
own people, and your own country ? '

' O, to tell you the truth,' retorted Gabriel

THE DEAD 235

suddenly, ' I'm sick of my own country, sick of
it!'

' Why ? ' asked Miss Ivors.

Gabriel did not answer for his retort had heated him.

' Why ? ' repeated Miss Ivors.

They had to go visiting together and, as he had
not answered her, Miss Ivors said warmly :

' Of course, you've no answer.'

Gabriel tried to cover his agitation by taking part
in the dance with great energy. He avoided her
eyes for he had seen a sour expression on her face.
But when they met in the long chain he was surprised
to feel his hand firmly pressed. She looked at him
from under her brows for a moment quizzically
until he smiled. Then, just as the chain was about
to start again, she stood on tiptoe and whispered
into his ear :

' West Briton ! '

When the lancers were over Gabriel went away
to a remote corner of the room where Freddy Malins'
mother was sitting. She was a stout feeble old
woman with white hair. Her voice had a catch in
it like her son's and she stuttered slightly. She
had been told that Freddy had come and that he
was nearly all right. Gabriel asked her whether
she had had a good crossing. She lived with her
married daughter in Glasgow and came to Dublin
on a visit once a year. She answered placidly that
she had had a beautiful crossing and that the captain
had been most attentive to her. She spoke also
of the beautiful house her daughter kept in Glasgow,

236 DUBLINERS

and of all the friends they had there. While her
tongue rambled on Gabriel tried to banish from his
mind all memory of the unpleasant incident with
Miss Ivors. Of course the girl or woman, or what-
ever she was, was an enthusiast but there was a
time for all things. Perhaps he ought not to have
answered her like that. But she had no right to call
him a West Briton before people, even in joke. She
had tried to make him ridiculous before people,
heckling him and staring at him with her rabbit's eyes.

He saw his wife making her way towards him
through the waltzing couples. When she reached
him she said into his ear :

' Gabriel, Aimt Kate wants to know won't you
carve the goose as usual. Miss Daly will carve the
ham and I'll do the pudding.'

' All right,' said Gabriel.

' She's sending in the younger ones first as soon
as this waltz is over so that we'll have the table to
ourselves,'

' Were you dancing ? ' asked Gabriel.

' Of course I was. Didn't you see me ? What
row had you with Molly Ivors ? '

' No row. Why ? Did she say so ? '

' Something like that. I'm trying to get that
Mr D'Arcy to sing. He's full of conceit, I think.'

' There was no row,' said Gabriel moodily, ' only
she wanted me to go for a trip to the west of Ireland
and I said I wouldn't.'

His wife clasped her hands excitedly ' and gave
a little jump.

THE DEAD 237

' O, do go, Gabriel,' she cried. ' I'd love to see
Galway again.'

'You can go if you like,' said Gabriel coldly.

She looked at him for a moment, then turned to
Mrs Malins and said :

' There's a nice husband for you, Mrs Malins.'

While she was threading her way back across the
room Mrs Malins, without adverting to the interrup-
tion, went on to tell Gabriel what beautiful places
there were in Scotland and beautiful scenery. Her
son-in-law brought them every year to the lakes
and they used to go fishing. Her son-in-law was
a splendid fisher. One day he caught a beautiful
big fish and the man in the hotel cooked it for their
dinner.

Gabriel hardly heard what she said. Now that
supper was coming near he began to think again
about his speech and about the quotation. When
he saw Freddy Malins coming across the room to
visit his mother Gabriel left the chair free for him
and retired into the embrasure of the window. The
room had already cleared and from the back room
came the clatter of plates and knives. Those who
still remained in the drawing-room seemed tired of
dancing and were conversing quietly in little groups.
Gabriel's warm trembling fingers tapped the cold
pane of the window. How cool it must be outside I
How pleasant it would be to walk out alone, first
along by the river and then through the park ! The
snow would be lying on the branches of the trees
and forming a bright cap on the top of the Wellington

238 DUBLINERS

Monument. How much more pleasant it would be
there than at the supper-table !

He ran over the headings of his speech : Irish
hospitality, sad memories, the Three Graces, Paris,
the quotation from Browning. He repeated to
himself a phrase he had written in his review :
' One feels that one is listening to a thought-
tormented music' Miss Ivors had praised the
review. Was she sincere ? Had she really any
life of her own behind all her propagandism ?
There had never been any ill-feeling between them
until that night. It unnerved him to think that
she would be at the supper-table, looking up at him
while he spoke with her critical quizzing eyes.
Perhaps she would not be sorry to see him fail in
his speech. An idea came into his mind and gave
him courage. He would say, alluding to Aunt Kate
and Aunt Julia : ' Ladies and Gentlemen, the
generation which is now on the wane among us
may have had its faults but for my part I think
it had certain qualities of hospitality, of humour,
of humanity, which the new and very serious and
hypereducated generation that is growing up aroimd
us seems to me to lack.' Very good : that was one
for Miss Ivors. What did he care that his aunts
were only two ignorant old women ?

A murmur in the room attracted his attention.
Mr Browne was advancing from the door, gallantly
escorting Aunt Julia, who leaned upon his arm,
smihng and hanging her head. An irregular
musketry of applause escorted her also as far as the

THE DEAD 239

piano and then, as Mary Jane seated herself on the
stool, and Aunt Julia, no longer smiling, half turned
so as to pitch her voice fairly into the room, gradually
ceased. Gabriel recognised the prelude. It was
that of an old song of Aunt Julia's — Arrayed for the
Bridal. Her voice, strong and clear in tone, attacked
with great spirit the runs which embellish the air and
though she sang very rapidly she did not miss even
the smallest of the grace notes. To follow the voice,
without looking at the singer's face, was to feel and
share the excitement of swift and secure flight.
Gabriel applauded loudly with all the others at the
close of the song and loud applause was borne in
from the invisible supper-table. It sounded so
genuine that a little colour struggled into Aunt Julia's
face as she bent to replace in the music-stand the old
leather-bound song-book that had her initials on the
cover. Freddy Malins, who had listened with his
head perched sideways to hear her better, was still
applauding when everyone else had ceased and talking
animatedly to his mother who nodded her head
gravely and slowly in acquiescence. At last, when
he could clap no more, he stood up suddenly and
hurried across the room to Aunt Julia whose hand
he seized and held in both his hands, shaking it when
words failed him or the catch in his voice proved too
much for him.

' I was just telling my mother,' he said, ' I never
heard you sing so well, never. No, I never heard
your voice so good as it is to-night. Now ! Would
you believe that now ? That's the truth. Upon

i

240 DUBLINERS

my word and honour that's the truth. I never
heard your voice sound so fresh and so ... so
clear and fresh, never.'

Aunt Julia smiled broadly and murmured some-
thing about compliments as she released her hand
from his grasp. Mr Browne extended his open hand
towards her and said to those who were near him in
the manner of a showman introducing a prodigy to
an audience :

' Miss Julia Morkan, my latest discovery ! '

He was laughing very heartily at this himself
when Freddy Malins turned to him and said :

' Well, Browne, if you're serious you might make
a worse discovery. All I can say is I never heard her
sing half so well as long as I am coming here. And
that's the honest truth.'

' Neither did I,' said Mr Browne. ' I think her
voice has greatly improved.'

Aunt Julia shrugged her shoulders and said with
meek pride :

' Thirty years ago I hadn't a bad voice as voices

go.'

' I often told Julia,' said Aunt Kate emphatically,
'that she was simply thrown away in that choir.
But she never would be said by me.'

She turned as if to appeal to the good sense of the
others against a refractory child while Aunt Julia
gazed in front of her, a vague smile of reminiscence
playing on her face.

' No,' continued Aunt Kate, ' she wouldn't be
said or led by anyone, slaving there in that choir

THE DEAD 241

night and day, night and day. Six o'clock on
Christmas morning ! And all for what ? '

' Well, isn't it for the honom- of God, Aunt Kate ? '
asked Mary Jane, twisting round on the piano-stool
and smihng.

Aunt Kate turned fiercely on her niece and said :

' I know all about the honour of God, Mary Jane,
but I think it's not at all honourable for the pope
to turn out the women out of the choirs that have
slaved there all their lives and put little whipper-
snappers of boys over their heads. I suppose it is
for the good of the Church if the pope does it. But
it's not just, Mary Jane, and it's not right.'

She had worked herself into a passion and would
have continued in defence of her sister for it was
a sore subject with her but Mary Jane, seeing that
all the dancers had come back, intervened pacifically :

' Now, Aimt Kate, you're giving scandal to Mr
Browne who is of the other persuasion.'

Aimt Kate turned to Mr Browne, who was
grinning at this allusion to his religion, and said
hastily :

' O, I don't question the pope's being right. I'm
only a stupid old woman and I wouldn't presume
to do such a thing. But there's such a thing as
common everyday politeness and gratitude. And
if I were in Julia's place I'd tell that Father Healy
straight up to his face . . .'

' And besides. Aunt Kate,' said Mary Jane, ' we
really are all hungry and when we are hungry we are
all very quarrelsome.'
Q

1

242 DUBLINERS

'And when we are thirsty we are also quarrel-
some,' added Mr Browne.

' So that we had better go to supper,' said Mary
Jane, ' and finish the discussion afterwards.'

On the landing outside the drawing-room Gabriel
found his wife and Mary Jane trying to persuade
Miss Ivors to stay for supper. But Miss Ivors,
who had put on her hat and was buttoning her cloak,
would not stay. She did not feel in the least hungry
and she had already overstayed her time.

' But only for ten minutes, Molly,' said Mrs
Conroy. ' That won't delay you.'

' To take a pick itself,' said Mary Jane, ' after all
your dancing.'

' I really couldn't,' said Miss Ivors.

* I am afraid you didn't enjoy yourself at all,' said
Mary Jane hopelessly.

' Ever so much, I assure you,' said Miss Ivors,
' but you really must let me run off now.'

' But how can you get home ? ' asked Mrs
Conroy.

' O, it's only two steps up the quay.'

Gabriel hesitated a moment and said :

' If you will allow me. Miss Ivors, I'll see you home
if you really are obliged to go.'

But Miss Ivors broke away from them.

' I won't hear of it,' she cried. ' For goodness
sake go in to your suppers and don't mind me. I'm
quite well able to take care of myself.'

' Well, you're the comical girl, Molly,' said Mrs
Conroy frankly.

THE DEAD 243

' Beannacht libh,^ cried Miss Ivors, with a laugh, as
she ran down the staircase.

Mary Jane gazed after her, a moody puzzled
expression on her face, while Mrs Conroy leaned over
the banisters to listen for the hall-door. Gabriel
asked himself was he the cause of her abrupt de-
parture. But she did not seem to be in ill humour :
she had gone away laughing. He stared blankly
down the staircase.

At the moment Aunt Kate came toddling out of the
supper-room, almost wringing her hands in despair.

' Where is Gabriel ? ' she cried. ' Where on
earth is Gabriel ? There's everyone waiting in there,
stage to let, and nobody to carve the goose ! '

' Here I am, Aunt Kate ! ' cried Gabriel, with
sudden animation, ' ready to carve a flock of geese,
if necessary.'

A fat brown goose lay at one end of the table
and at the other end, on a bed of creased paper
strewn with sprigs of parsley, lay a great ham,
stripped of its outer skin and peppered over with
crust crumbs, a neat paper frill round its shin and
beside this was a roimd of spiced beef. Between
these rival ends ran parallel lines of side-dishes :
two little minsters of jelly, red and yellow ; a
shallow dish full of blocks of blancmange and red
jam, a large green leaf-shaped dish with a stalk-
shaped handle, on which lay bunches of purple
raisins and peeled almonds, a companion dish on
which lay a solid rectangle of Smyrna figs, a dish
of custard topped with grated nutmeg, a small

244 DUBLINERS

bowl full of chocolates and sweets wrapped in gold
and silver papers and a glass vase in which stood
some tall celery stalks. In the centre of the table
there stood, as sentries to a fruit-stand which upheld
a pyramid of oranges and American apples, two
squat old-fashioned decanters of cut glass, one
containing port and the other dark sherry. On the
closed square piano a pudding in a huge yellow dish
lay in waiting and behind it were three squads of
bottles of stout and ale and minerals, drawn up
according to the colours of their uniforms, the first
two black, with brown and red labels, the third and
smallest squad white, with transverse green sashes.

Gabriel took his seat boldly at the head of the table
and, having looked to the edge of the carver, plunged
his fork firmly into the goose. He felt quite at ease
now for he was an expert carver and liked nothing
better than to find himself at the head of a well-
laden table.

' Miss Furlong, what shall I send you ? ' he asked.
' A wing or a slice of the breast ? '

' Just a small slice of the breast.'

' Miss Higgins, what for you ? '

' O, anything at all, Mr Conroy.'

While Gabriel and Miss Daly exchanged plates
of goose and plates of ham and spiced beef Lily
went from guest to guest with a dish of hot floury
potatoes wrapped in a white napkin. This was
Mary Jane's idea and she had also suggested apple
sauce for the goose but Aunt Kate had said that plain
roast goose without any apple sauce had always

THE DEAD 245

been good enough for her and she hoped she might
never eat worse. Mary Jane waited on her pupils
and saw that they got the best sHces and Aunt Kate
and Aunt JuHa opened and carried across from the
piano bottles of stout and ale for the gentlemen
and bottles of minerals for the ladies. There was a
great deal of confusion and laughter and noise, the
noise of orders and counter-orders, of knives and forks,
of corks and glass -stoppers. Gabriel began to carve
second helpings as soon as he had finished the first
round without serving himself. Everyone protested
loudly so that he compromised by taking a long
draught of stout for he had foimd the carving hot
work. Mary Jane settled down quietly to her
supper but Aimt Kate and Aunt Julia were still
toddling round the table, walking on each other's
heels, getting in each other's way and giving each
other unheeded orders. Mr Browne begged of
them to sit down and eat their suppers and so did
Gabriel but they said they were time enough so that,
at last, Freddy MaUns stood up and, capturing Aunt
Kate, plumped her down on her chair amid general
laughter.

When everyone had been well served Gabriel said,
smiling :

'Now, if anyone wants a little more of what
vulgar people call stuffing let him or her speak.'

A chorus of voices invited him to begin his own
supper and Lily came forward with three potatoes
which she had reserved for him.

' Very well,' said Gabriel amiably, as he took

246 DUBLINERS

another preparatory draught, 'kindly forget my
existence, ladies and gentlemen, for a few minutes.'

He set to his supper and took no part in the
conversation with which the table covered Lily's
removal of the plates. The subject of talk was
the opera company which was then at the Theatre
Royal. Mr Bartell D'Arcy, the tenor, a dark-
complexioned young man with a smart moustache,
praised very highly the leading contralto of the
company but Miss Furlong thought she had a rather
vulgar style of production. Freddy Malins said
there was a negro chieftain singing in the second
part of the Gaiety pantomime who had one of the
finest tenor voices he had ever heard.

" Have you heard him ? ' he asked Mr Bartell
D'Arcy across the table.

' No,' answered Mr Bartell D'Arcy carelessly.

' Because,' Freddy Malins explained, ' now I'd
be curious to hear your opinion of him. I think
he has a grand voice.'

' It takes Teddy to find out the really good things,'
said Mr Browne familiarly to the table.

' And why couldn't he have a voice too ? ' asked
Freddy Malins sharply. ' Is it because he's only
a black?'

Nobody answered this question and Mary Jane
led the table back to the legitimate opera. One
of her pupils had given her a pass for Mignon. Of
course it was very fine, she said, but it made her
think of poor Georgina Burns. Mr Browne could
go back farther still, to the old Italian companies

THE DEAD 247

that used to come to Dublin — ^Tietjens, lima de
Murzka, Campanini, the great Trebelli Giuglini,
Ravelli, Aramburo. Those were the days, he said,
when there was something like singing to be heard in
Dublin. He told too of how the top gallery of the
old Royal used to be packed night after night, of
how one night an Italian tenor had sung five encores
to Let me like a Soldier fall, introducing a high
C every time, and of how the gallery boys would
sometimes in their enthusiasm unyoke the horses
from the carriage of some great 'prima donna and pull
her themselves through the streets to her hotel.
Why did they never play the grand old operas now,
he asked, ' Dinorah, Lucrezia Borgia ? Because they
could not get the voices to sing them : that was
why.'

' O, well,' said Mr Bartell D'Arcy, ' I presume
there are as good singers to-day as there were then.'

' Where are they ? ' asked Mr Browne defiantly.

' In London, Paris, Milan,' said Mr Bartell D'Arcy
warmly. * I suppose Caruso, for example, is quite as
good, if not better than any of the men you have
mentioned.'

'Maybe so,' said Mr Browne. 'But I may tell
you I doubt it strongly.'

' O, I'd give anything to hear Caruso sing,' said
Mary Jane.

' For me,' said Aunt Kate, who had been picking
a bone, ' there was only one tenor. To please me,
I mean. But I suppose none of you ever heard of
him.'

248 DUBLINERS

' Who was he, Miss Morkan ? ' asked Mr Bartell
D'Arey politely.

'His name,' said Aunt Kate, 'was Parkinson.
I heard him when he was in his prime and I think
he had then the purest tenor voice that was ever
put into a man's throat.'

' Strange,' said Mr Bartell D'Arey. ' I never
even heard of him.'

' Yes, yes. Miss Morkan is right,' said Mr Browne.
* I remember hearing of old Parkinson but he's too
far back for me.'

'A beautiful pure sweet mellow English tenor,'
said Aunt Kate with enthusiasm.

Gabriel having finished, the huge pudding was
transferred to the table. The clatter of forks and
spoons began again. Gabriel's wife served out
spoonfuls of the pudding and passed the plates
down the table. Midway down they were held up
by Mary Jane, who replenished them with raspberry
or orange jelly or with blancmange and jam. The
pudding was of Aimt Julia's making and she received
praises for it from all quarters. She herself said
that it was not quite brown enough.

'Well, I hope. Miss Morkan,' said Mr Browne,
' that I'm brown enough for you because, you know,
I'm all brown.'

All the gentlemen, except Gabriel, ate some of the
pudding out of compliment to Aunt Julia . As Gabri el
never ate sweets the celery had been left for him.
Freddy Malins also took a stalk of celery and ate
it with his pudding. He had been told that celery

THE DEAD 249

was a capital thing for the blood and he was just
then under doctor's care. Mrs Malins, who had been
silent all through the supper, said that her son was
going down to Mount Melleray in a week or so. The
table then spoke of Mount Melleray, how bracing the
air was down there, how hospitable the monks were
and how they never asked for a penny-piece from
their guests.

'And do you mean to say,' asked Mr Browne
incredulously, ' that a chap can go down there and
put up there as if it were a hotel and live on the fat
of the land and then come away without paying
anything ? '

' O, most people give some donation to the
monastery when they leave,' said Mary Jane.

' I wish we had an institution like that in our
Church,' said Mr Browne candidly.

He was astonished to hear that the monks never
spoke, got up at two in the morning and slept in
their coffins. He asked what they did it for.

' That's the rule of the order,' said Aunt Kate firmly.

' Yes, but why ? ' asked Mr Browne.

Aimt Kate repeated that it was the rule, that
was all. Mr Browne still seemed not to understand.
Freddy Malins explained to him, as best he could,
that the monks were trying to make up for the sins
committed by all the sinners in the outside world.
The explanation was not very clear for Mr Browne
grinned and said :

' I like that idea very much but wouldn't a
comfortable spring bed do them as well as a coffin ? '

250 DUBLINERS

' The coffin,' said Mary Jane, ' is to remind them
of their last end.'

As the subject had grown lugubrious it was buried
in a silence of the table during which Mrs Malins
could be heard saying to her neighbour in an
indistinct undertone :

' They are very good men, the monks, very pious
men.'

The raisins and almonds and figs and apples
and oranges and chocolates and sweets were now
passed about the table and Aunt Julia invited all
the guests to have either port or sherry. At first
Mr Bartell D'Arcy refused to take either but one of
his neighbours nudged him and whispered something
to him upon which he allowed his glass to be filled.
Gradually as the last glasses were being filled the
conversation ceased. A pause followed, broken only
by the noise of the wine and by unsettlings of chairs.
The Misses Morkan, all three, looked down at the
tablecloth. Someone coughed once or twice and
then a few gentlemen patted the table gently as a
signal for silence. The silence came and Gabriel
pushed back his chair and stood up.

The patting at once grew louder in encouragement
and then ceased altogether. Gabriel leaned his ten
trembling fingers on the tablecloth and smiled
nervously at the company. Meeting a row of
upturned faces he raised his eyes to the chandelier.
The piano was playing a waltz tune and he could
hear the skirts sweeping against the drawing-room
door. People, perhaps, were standing in the snow

THE DEAD 251

on the quay outside, gazing up at the lighted
windows and listening to the waltz music. The air
was pure there. In the distance lay the park where
the trees were weighted with snow. The Wellington
Monument wore a gleaming cap of snow that flashed
westward over the white field of Fifteen Acres.

He began :

' Ladies and Gentlemen,

' It has fallen to my lot this evening, as in years
past, to perform a very pleasing task but a task for
which I am afraid my poor powers as a speaker are
all too inadequate.'

' No, no ! ' said Mr Browne.

' But, however that may be, I can only ask you
to-night to take the will for the deed and to lend me
your attention for a few moments while I endeavour
to express to you in words what my feelings are on
this occasion.

' Ladies and Gentlemen, it is not the first time
that we have gathered together under this hospitable
roof, around this hospitable board. It is not the
first time that we have been the recipients — or
perhaps, I had better say, the victims — of the
hospitality of certain good ladies.'

He made a circle in the air with his arm and paused.
Everyone laughed or smiled at Aunt Kate and Aunt
Julia and Mary Jane who all turned crimson with
pleasure. Gabriel went on more boldly :

* I feel more strongly with every recurring year
that our country has no tradition which does it so
much honour and which it should guard so jealously

252 DUBLINERS

as that of its hospitality. It is a tradition that is
unique as far as my experience goes (and I have
visited not a few places abroad) among the modem
nations. Some would say, perhaps, that with us it
is rather a failing than a thing to be boasted of.
But granted even that, it is, to my mind, a princely
failing, and one that I trust will long be cultivated
among us. Of one thing, at least, I am sure. As
long as this one roof shelters the good ladies aforesaid
— and I wish from my heart it may do so for many
and many a long year to come — ^the tradition of
genuine warm-hearted courteous Irish hospitality,
which our forefathers have handed down to us and
which we in turn must hand down to our descendants,
is still alive among us.'

A hearty murmur of assent ran round the table.
It shot through Gabriel's mind that Miss Ivors was
not there and that she had gone away discourteously :
and he said with confidence in himself :

' Ladies and Gentlemen,

' A new generation is growing up in our midst,
a generation actuated by new ideas and new
principles. It is serious and enthusiastic for these
new ideas and its enthusiasm, even when it is mis-
directed, is, I believe, in the main sincere. But
we are living in a sceptical and, if I may use the
phrase, a thought-tormented age : and sometimes
I fear that this new generation, educated or hyper-
educated as it is, will lack those qualities of humanity,
of hospitality, of kindly humour which belonged to
an older day. Listening to-night to the names of

THE DEAD 253

all those great singers of the past it seemed to me,
I must confess, that we were living in a less spacious
age. Those days might, without exaggeration, be
called spacious days : and if they are gone beyond
recall let us hope, at least, that in gatherings such
as this we shall still speak of them with pride and
affection, still cherish in our hearts the memory of
those dead and gone great ones whose fame the world
will not willingly let die.'

' Hear, hear ! ' said Mr Browne loudly.

' But yet,' continued Gabriel, his voice falling into
a softer inflection, ' there are always in gatherings
such as this sadder thoughts that will recur to our
minds : thoughts of the past, of youth, of changes,
of absent faces that we miss here to-night. Our path
through life is strewn with many such sad memories :
and were we to brood upon them always we could
not find the heart to go on bravely with our work
among the living. We have all of us living duties
and living affections which claim, and rightly claim,
our strenuous endeavours.

' Therefore, I will not linger on the past. I will
not let any gloomy moralising intrude upon us here
to-night. Here we are gathered together for a brief
moment from the bustle and rush of our everyday
routine. We are met here as friends, in the spirit
of good-fellowship, as colleagues, also to a certain
extent, in the true spirit of camaraderie^ and as the
guests of — ^what shall I call them ? — ^the Three Graces
of the Dublin musical world.'

The table burst into applause and laughter at this

254 DUBLINERS

allusion. Aunt Julia vainly asked each of her
neighbours in turn to tell her what Gabriel had said.

' He says we are the Three Graces, Aunt JuHa,'
said Mary Jane.

Aunt Julia did not understand but she looked up,
smiling, at Gabriel, who continued in the same vein :

' Ladies and Gentlemen,

' I will not attempt to play to-night the part
that Paris played on another occasion. I will not
attempt to choose between them. The task would
be an invidious one and one beyond my poor
powers. For when I view them in turn, whether
it be our chief hostess herself, whose good heart,
whose too good heart, has become a byword with all
who know her, or her sister, who seems to be gifted
with perennial youth and whose singing must have
been a surprise and a revelation to us all to-night,
or, last but not least, when I consider our youngest
hostess, talented, cheerful, hard-working and the
best of nieces, I confess. Ladies and Gentlemen, that
I do not know to which of them I should award the
prize.'

Gabriel glanced down at his aunts and, seeing
the large smile on Aimt Julia's face and the tears
which had risen to Aunt Kate's eyes, hastened to
his close. He raised his glass of port gallantly,
while every member of the company fingered a glass
expectantly, and said loudly :

'Let us toast them all three together. Let us
drink to their health, wealth, long life, happiness
and prosperity and may they long continue to hold

THE DEAD 255

the proud and self -won position which they hold in
their profession and the position of honour and
affection which they hold in our hearts.'

All the guests stood up, glass in hand, and,
turning towards the three seated ladies, sang in
unison, with Mr Browne as leader :

' For they are jolly gay fellows,
For they are jolly gay fellows,
For they are jolly gay fellows,
Which nobody can deny.'

Aunt Kate was making frank use of her hand-
kerchief and even Aunt Julia seemed moved. Freddy
Malins beat time with his pudding-fork and the
singers turned towards one another, as if in melodious
conference, while they sang with emphasis :

' Unless he tells a lie.
Unless he tells a lie.'

Then, turning once more towards their hostesses,
they sang :

' For they are jolly gay fellows.
For they are jolly gay fellows,
For they are jolly gay fellows,
Which nobody can deny.'

The acclamation which followed was taken up
beyond the door of the supper-room by many of the
other guests and renewed time after time, Freddy
Malins acting as officer with his fork on high.

The piercing morning air came into the hall where
they were standing so that Aunt Kate said :

256 DUBLINERS

' Close the door, somebody. Mrs Malins will get
her death of cold.'

' Browne is out there, Aunt Kate,' said Mary Jane.

' Browne is everywhere,' said Aunt Kate, lowering
her voice.

Mary Jane laughed at her tone.

' Really,' she said archly, ' he is very attentive.'

' He has been laid on here like the gas,' said Aunt
Kate in the same tone, ' all during the Christmas.'

She laughed herself this time good-humouredly
and then added quickly :

' But tell him to come in, Mary Jane, and close
the door. I hope to goodness he didn't hear me.'

At that moment the hall-door was opened and
Mr Browne came in from the doorstep, laughing as
if his heart would break. He was dressed in a long
green overcoat with mock astrakhan cuffs and collar
and wore on his head an oval fur cap. He pointed
down the snow-covered quay from where the sound
of shrill prolonged whistling was borne in.

' Teddy will have all the cabs in Dublin out,' he said.

Gabriel advanced from the little pantry behind
the office, struggling into his overcoat and, looking
round the hall, said :

' Gretta not down yet ? '

' She's getting on her things, Gabriel,' said Aunt
Kate.

' Who's playing up there ? ' asked Gabriel.

'Nobody. They're all gone.'

'O no. Aunt Kate,' said Mary Jane. ' Bartell
D'Arcy and Miss O'Callaghan aren't gone yet.'

THE DEAD 257

' Someone is fooling at the piano, anyhow,' said
Gabriel.

Mary Jane glanced at Gabriel and Mr Browne
and said with a shiver :

' It makes me feel cold to look at you two gentle-
men muffled up like that. I wouldn't like to face
your journey home at this hour.'

' I'd like nothing better this minute,' said Mr
Browne stoutly, ' than a rattling fine walk in the
country or a fast drive with a good spanking goer
between the shafts.'

* We used to have a very good horse and trap at
home,' said Aunt Julia sadly.

'The never-to-be-forgotten Johnny,' said Mary
Jane, laughing.

Aimt Kate and Gabriel laughed too.

' Why, what was wonderful about Johnny ? '
asked Mr Browne.

'The late lamented Patrick Morkan, our grand-
father, that is,' explained Gabriel, * commonly known in
his later years as the old gentleman, was a glue-boiler.'

' O, now, Gabriel,' said Aunt Kate, laughing, ' he
had a starch mill.'

' Well, glue or starch,' said Gabriel, ' the old gentle-
man had a horse by the name of Johnny. And
Johnny used to work in the old gentleman's mill,
walking round and round in order to drive the mill.
That was all very well ; but now comes the tragic
part about Johnny. One fine day the old gentleman
thought he'd like to drive out with the quality to
a military review in the park.'

258 DUBLINERS

' The Lord have mercy on his soul,' said Aunt Kate
compassionately.

' Amen,' said Gabriel. ' So the old gentleman,
as I said, harnessed Johnny and put on his very best
tall hat and his very best stock collar and drove out
in grand style from his ancestral mansion somewhere
near Back Lane, I think.'

Everyone laughed, even Mrs Malins, at Gabriel's
manner and Aunt Kate said :

' O now, Gabriel, he didn't live in Back Lane,
really. Only the mill was there.'

' Out from the mansion of his forefathers,' con-
tinued Gabriel, ' he drove with Johnny. And every-
thing went on beautifully until Johnny came in sight
of King Billy's statue : and whether he fell in love
with the horse King Billy sits on or whether he
thought he was back again in the mill, anyhow he
began to walk round the statue.'

Gabriel paced in a circle round the hall in his
goloshes amid the laughter of the others.

'Round and round he went,' said Gabriel, 'and
the old gentleman, who was a very pompous old
gentleman, was highly indignant. " Go on, sir !
What do you mean, sir ? Johnny ! Johnny !
Most extraordinary conduct ! Can't understand the
horse ! " '

The peals of laughter which followed Gabriel's
imitation of the incident was interrupted by a
resounding knock at the hall-door. Mary Jane ran
to open it and let in Freddy Malins. Freddy Malins,
with his hat well back on his head and his shoulders

THE DEAD 259

humped with cold, was puffing and steaming after
his exertions.

' I could only get one cab,' he said.

'O, we'll find another along the quay,' said
Gabriel.

' Yes,' said Aunt Kate. ' Better not keep Mrs
Malins standing in the draught.'

Mrs Malins was helped down the front steps by
her son and Mr Browne and, after many manoeuvres,
hoisted into the cab. Freddy Malins clambered in
after her and spent a long time settling her on the
seat, Mr Browne helping him with advice. At last
she was settled comfortably and Freddy Malins
invited Mr Browne into the cab. There was a good
deal of confused talk, and then Mr Browne got into
the cab. The cabman settled his rug over his knees,
and bent down for the address. The confusion grew
greater and the cabman was directed differently
by Freddy Malins and Mr Browne, each of whom
had his head out through a window of the cab. The
difficulty was to know where to drop Mr Browne
along the route and Aimt Kate, Aunt Julia and Mary
Jane helped the discussion from the doorstep with
cross-directions and contradictions and abundance of
laughter. As for Freddy Malins he was speechless
with laughter. He popped his head in and out of
the window every moment, to the great danger of
his hat, and told his mother how the discussion was
progressing till at last Mr Browne shouted to the
bewildered cabman above the din of everybody's
laughter :

260 DUBLINERS

' Do you know Trinity College ? '

' Yes, sir,' said the cabman.

' Well, drive bang up against Trinity College gates,'
said Mr Browne, ' and then we'll tell you where to
go. You understand now ? '

' Yes, sir,' said the cabman.

' Make like a bird for Trinity College.'

' Right, sir,' said the cabman.

The horse was whipped up and the cab rattled off
along the quay amid a choi-us of laughter and adieus.

Gabriel had not gone to the door with the others.
He was in a dark part of the hall gazing up the
staircase. A woman was standing near the top of
the first flight, in the shadow also. He could not see
her face but he could see the terracotta and salmon-
pink panels of her skirt which the shadow made
appear black and white. It was his wife. She
was leaning on the banisters, listening to something.
Gabriel was surprised at her stillness and strained
his ear to listen also. But he could hear little save
the noise of laughter and dispute on the front steps,
a few chords struck on the piano and a few notes of
a man's voice singing.

He stood still in the gloom of the hall, trying to
catch the air that the voice was singing and gazing
up at his wife. There was grace and mystery in her
attitude as if she were a symbol of something. He
asked himself what is a woman standing on the stairs
in the shadow, listening to distant music, a symbol
of. If he were a painter he would paint her in that
attitude. Her blue felt hat would show off the bronze

THE DEAD 261

of her hair against the darkness and the dark panels
of her skirt would show off the light ones. Distant
Music he would call the picture if he were a painter.

The hall-door was closed; and Aunt Kate, Aunt
Julia and Mary Jane came down the hall, still
laughing.

' Well, isn't Freddy terrible ? ' said Mary Jane.
* He's really terrible.'

Gabriel said nothing but pointed up the stairs
towards where his wife was standing. Now that
the hall-door was closed the voice and the piano
could be heard more clearly. Gabriel held up his
hand for them to be silent. The song seemed to be
in the old Irish tonality and the singer seemed
imcertain both of his words and of his voice. The
voice, made plaintive by distance and by the singer's
hoarseness, faintly illuminated the cadence of the air
with words expressing grief :

' O, the rain falls on my heavy locks
And the dew wets my skin,
My babe lies cold . . .'

' O,' exclaimed Mary Jane. ' It's Bartell D'Arcy
singing and he wouldn't sing all the night. O, I'll
get him to sing a song before he goes.'

' O do, Mary Jane,' said Aimt Kate.

Mary Jane brushed past the others and ran to the
staircase but before she reached it the singing
stopped and the piano was closed abruptly.

' O, what a pity I ' she cried. ' Is he coming down,
Gretta ? '

262 DUBLINERS

Gabriel heard his wife answer yes and saw her come
down towards them. A few steps behind her were
Mr Bartell D'Arey and Miss O'Callaghan.

' O, Mr D'Arey,' cried Mary Jane, ' it's downright
mean of you to break off hke that when we were all
in raptures listening to you.'

' I have been at him all the evening,' said Miss
O'Callaghan, ' and Mrs Conroy too and he told us
he had a dreadful cold and couldn't sing.'

' O, Mr D'Arey,' said Aunt Kate, ' now that was
a great fib to tell.'

' Can't you see that I'm as hoarse as a crow ? '
said Mr D'Arey roughly.

He went into the pantiy hastily and put on his
overcoat. The others, taken aback by his rude
speech, could find nothing to say. Aunt Kate
wrinkled her brows and made signs to the others
to drop the subject. Mr D'Arey stood swathing his
neck carefully and frowning.

' It's the weather,' said Aunt Julia, after a
pause.

' Yes, everybody has colds,' said Aunt Kate readily,
' everybody.'

' They say,' said Mary Jane, ' we haven't had
snow like it for thirty years ; and I read this morning
in the newspapers that the snow is general all over
Ireland.'

' I love the look of snow,' said Aunt Julia sadly.

' So do I,' said Miss O'Callaghan. ' I think
Christmas is never really Christmas unless we have
the snow on the ground.'

THE DEAD 263

' But poor Mr D'Arcy doesn't like the snow,'
said Aunt Kate, smiling.

Mr D'Arcy came from the pantry, fully swathed
and buttoned, and in a repentant tone told them the
history of his cold. Everyone gave him advice and
said it was a great pity and urged him to be very
careful of his throat in the night air. Gabriel watched
his wife who did not join in the conversation. She
was standing right under the dusty fanlight and the
flame of the gas lit up the rich bronze of her hair
which he had seen her drying at the fire a few days
before. She was in the same attitude and seemed
unaware of the talk about her. At last she turned
towards them and Gabriel saw that there was colour
on her cheeks and that her eyes were shining. A
sudden tide of joy went leaping out of his heart.

' Mr D'Arcy,' she said, ' what is the name of that
song you were singing ? '

' It's called The Lass of Aughrim,' said Mr D'Arcy,
' but I couldn't remember it properly. Why ? Do
you know it ? '

' The Lass of Aughrim,^ she repeated. ' I couldn't
think of the name.'

' It's a very nice air,' said Mary Jane. ' I'm sorry
you were not in voice to-night.'

' Now, Mary Jane,' said Aunt Kate, ' don't annoy
Mr D'Arcy. I won't have him annoyed.'

Seeing that all were ready to start she shepherded
them to the door where good-night was said :

' Well, good-night. Aunt Kate, and thanks for the
pleasant evening.'

264 DUBLINERS

' Good-night, Gabriel. Good-night, Gretta ! '

' Good-night, Aunt Kate, and thanks ever so much.
Good-night, Aunt JuHa.'

' O, good-night, Gretta, I didn't see you.'

'Good-night, Mr D'Arcy. Good-night, Miss
O'Callaghan.'

' Good-night, Miss Morkan.'

' Good-night, again.'

' Good-night, all. Safe home.'

' Good-night. Good-night.'

The morning was still dark. A dull yellow light
brooded over the houses and the river ; and the
sky seemed to be descending. It was slushy under-
foot ; and only streaks and patches of snow lay on
the roofs, on the parapets of the quay and on the area
railings. The lamps were still burning redly in the
murky air and, across the river, the palace of the Four
Courts stood out menacingly against the heavy sky.

She was walking on before him with Mr Bartell
D'Arcy, her shoes in a brown parcel tucked under
one arm and her hands holding her skirt up from
the slush. She had no longer any grace of attitude
but Gabriel's eyes were still bright with happiness.
The blood went bounding along his veins ; and the
thoughts went rioting through his brain, proud,
joyful, tender, valorous.

She was walking on before him so lightly and so
erect that he longed to run after her noiselessly,
catch her by the shoulders and say something foolish
and affectionate into her ear. She seemed to him so
frail that he longed to defend her against something

THE DEAD 265

and then to be alone with her. Moments of their
secret Hf e together burst Hke stars upon his memory.
A heliotrope envelope was lying beside his breakfast-
cup and he was caressing it with his hand. Birds
were twittering in the ivy and the sunny web of the
curtain was shimmering along the floor : he could not
eat for happiness. They were standing on the crowded
platform and he was placing a ticket inside the warm
palm of her glove. He was standing with her in the
cold, looking in through a grated window at a man
making bottles in a roaring furnace. It was very
cold. Her face, fragrant in the cold air, was quite
close to his ; and suddenly he called out to the man
at the furnace :

' Is the fire hot, sir ? '

But the man could not hear with the noise of
the furnace. It was just as well. He might have
answered rudely.

A wave of yet more tender joy escaped from his
heart and went coursing in warm flood along his
arteries. Like the tender fire of stars moments of
their life together, that no one knew of or would
ever know of, broke upon and illumined his memory.
He longed to recall to her those moments, to make
her forget the years of their dull existence together
and remember only their moments of ecstasy. For
the years, he felt, had not quenched his soul or hers.
Their children, his writing, her household cares had
not quenched all their souls' tender fire. In one
letter that he had written to her then he had said :
* Why is it that words like these seem to me so dull

266 DUBLINERS

and cold ? Is it because there is no word tender
enough to be your name ? '

Like distant music these words that he had
written years before were borne towards him from
the past. He longed to be alone with her. When
the others had gone away, when he and she were in
their room in the hotel, then they would be alone
together. He would call her softly :

' Gretta ! '

Perhaps she would not hear at once : she would
be undressing. Then something in his voice would
strike her. She would turn and look at him. . . .

At the corner of Winetavern Street they met a
cab. He was glad of its rattling noise as it saved
him from conversation. She was looking out of
the window and seemed tired. The others spoke
only a few words, pointing out some building or
street. The horse galloped along wearily under
the murky morning sky, dragging his old rattling
box after his heels, and Gabriel was again in a cab
with her, galloping to catch the boat, galloping to
their honejnnoon.

As the cab drove across O'Connell Bridge Miss
O'Callaghan said :

' They say you never cross O'Connell Bridge
without seeing a white horse.'

' I see a white man this time,' said Gabriel.

' Where ? ' asked Mr Bartell D'Arcy.

Gabriel pointed to the statue, on which lay patches
of snow. Then he nodded familiarly to it and
waved his hand.

THE DEAD 267

' Good-night, Dan,' he said gaily.

When the cab drew up before the hotel Gabriel
jiimped out and, in spite of Mr Bartell D'Arcy's
protest, paid the driver. He gave the man a shilling
over his fare. The man saluted and said :

' A prosperous New Year to you, sir.'

'The same to you,' said Gabriel cordially.

She leaned for a moment on his arm in getting
out of the cab and while standing at the curbstone,
bidding the others good-night. She leaned lightly
on his arm, as lightly as when she had danced with
him a few hours before. He had felt proud and
happy then, happy that she was his, proud of her
grace and wifely carriage. But now, after the kind-
ling again of so many memories, the first touch of
her body, musical and strange and perfumed, sent
through him a keen pang of lust. Under cover
of her silence he pressed her arm closely to his side ;
and, as they stood at the hotel door, he felt that they
had escaped from their lives and duties, escaped from
home and friends and run away together with wild
and radiant hearts to a new adventure.

An old man was dozing in a great hooded chair
in the hall. He lit a candle in the office and went
before them to the stairs. They followed him in
silence, their feet falling in soft thuds on the thickly
carpeted stairs. She mounted the stairs behind the
porter, her head bowed in the ascent, her frail
shoulders curved as with a burden, her skirt girt
tightly about her. He could have flimg his arms
about her hips and held her still for his arms were

268 DUBLINERS

trembling with desire to seize her and only the
stress of his nails against the palms of his hands held
the wild impulse of his body in check. The porter
halted on the stairs to settle his guttering candle.
They halted too on the steps below him. In the
silence Gabriel could hear the falling of the molten
wax into the tray and the thumping of his own heart
against his ribs.

The porter led them along a corridor and opened
a door. Then he set his unstable candle down on
a toilet-table and asked at what hour they were to
be called in the morning.

' Eight,' said Gabriel.

The porter pointed to the tap of the electric-light
and began a muttered apology but Gabriel cut him
short.

' We don't want any light. We have light enough
from the street. And I say,' he added, pointing to
the candle, ' you might remove that handsome
article, like a good man.'

The porter took up his candle again, but slowly
for he was surprised by such a novel idea. Then
he miunbled good-night and went out. Gabriel shot
the lock too.

A ghastly light from the street lamp lay in a long
shaft from one window to the door. Gabriel threw
his overcoat and hat on a couch and crossed the
room towards the window. He looked down into the
street in order that his emotion might calm a little.
Then he turned and leaned against a chest of drawers
with his back to the light. She had taken off her hat

THE DEAD 269

and cloak and was standing before a large swinging
mirror, unhooking her waist. Gabriel paused for a
few moments, watching her, and then said :
* Gretta ! '

She turned away from the mirror slowly and
walked along the shaft of light towards him. Her
face looked so serious and weary that the words
would not pass Gabriel's lips. No, it was not the
moment yet.

' You look tired,' he said.
' I am a little,' she answered.
' You don't feel ill or weak ? '
'No, tired: that's all.'

She went on to the window and stood there, looking
out. Gabriel waited again and then, fearing that
diffidence was about to conquer him, he said
abruptly :

' By the way, Gretta ! '
' What is it ? '

' You know that poor fellow Malins ? ' he said
quickly.

' Yes. What about him ? '

' Well, poor fellow, he's a decent sort of chap after
all,' continued Gabriel in a false voice. ' He gave
me back that sovereign I lent him and I didn't expect
it really. It's a pity he wouldn't keep away from
that Browne because he's not a bad fellow really.'

He was trembling now with annoyance. Why
did she seem so abstracted ? He did not know how
he could begin. Was she annoyed, too, about
something ? If she would only turn to him or

270 DUBLINERS

come to him of her own accord ! To take her as
she was would be brutal. No, he must see some
ardour in her eyes first. He longed to be master
of her strange mood.

' When did you lend him the poimd ? ' she asked,
after a pause.

Gabriel strove to restrain himself from breaking
out into brutal language about the sottish Malins
and his pound. He longed to cry to her from his
soul, to crush her body against his, to overmaster
her. But he said :

' O, at Christmas, when he opened that little
Christmas-card shop in Henry Street.'

He was in such a fever of rage and desire that he
did not hear her come from the window. She stood
before him for an instant, looking at him strangely.
Then, suddenly raising herself on tiptoe and resting
her hands lightly on his shoulders, she kissed him.

' You are a very generous person, Gabriel,' she said.

Gabriel, trembling with delight at her sudden
kiss and at the quaintness of her phrase, put his
hands on her hair and began smoothing it back,
scarcely touching it with his fingers. The washing
had made it fine and brilliant. His heart was
brimming over with happiness. Just when he
was wishing for it she had come to him of her own
accord. Perhaps her thoughts had been running
with his. Perhaps she had felt the impetuous desire
that was in him and then the yielding mood had
come upon her. Now that she had fallen to him so
easily he wondered why he had been so diffident.

THE DEAD 271

He stood, holding her head between his hands.
Then, slipping one arm swiftly about her body and
drawing her towards him, he said softly :

' Gretta dear, what are you thinking about ? '

She did not answer nor yield wholly to his arm.
He said again, softly :

' Tell me what it is, Gretta. I think I know
what is the matter. Do I know ? '

She did not answer at once. Then she said in an
outburst of tears :

' O, I am thinking about that song, The Lass of
Aughrim.^

She broke loose from him and ran to the bed
and, throwing her arms across the bed-rail, hid her
face. Gabriel stood stock-still for a moment in
astonishment and then followed her. As he passed
in the way of the cheval-glass he caught sight of
himself in full length, his broad, well-filled shirt-front,
the face whose expression always puzzled him when
he saw it in a mirror and his glimmering gilt-
rimmed eyeglasses. He halted a few paces from her
and said :

' What about the song ? Why does that make
you cry ? '

She raised her head from her arms and dried her
eyes with the back of her hand like a child. A
kinder note than he had intended went into his
voice.

' Why, Gretta ? ' he asked.
' I am thinking about a person long ago who used
to sing that song.'

272 DUBLINERS

' And who was the person long ago ? ' asked
Gabriel, smiling.

' It was a person I used to know in Galway when
I was living with my grandmother,' she said.

The smile passed away from Gabriel's face. A
dull anger began to gather again at the back of his
mind and the dull fires of his lust began to glow
angrily in his veins.

' Someone you were in love with ? ' he asked
ironically.

' It was a young boy I used to know,' she answered,
' named Michael Furey. He used to sing that song,
The Lass of Aughrim, He was very delicate.'

Gabriel was silent. He did not wish her to think
that he was interested in this delicate boy.

' I can see him so plainly,' she said after a
moment. ' Such eyes as he had : big dark eyes !
And such an expression in them — ^an expression ! '
' O then, you were in love with him ? ' said Gabriel.
' I used to go out walking with him,' she said,
' when I was in Galway.'
A thought flew across Gabriel's mind.
' Perhaps that was why you wanted to go to
Galway with that Ivors girl ? ' he said coldly.
She looked at him and asked in surprise :
' What for ? '

Her eyes made Gabriel feel awkward. He
shrugged his shoulders and said :

' How do I know ? To see him perhaps.'
She looked away from him along the shaft of light
towards the window in silence.

THE DEAD 278

* He is dead,' she said at length. ' He died when
he was only seventeen. Isn't it a terrible thing to
die so young as that ? '

' What was he ? ' asked Gabriel, still ironically.

' He was in the gasworks,' she said.

Gabriel felt humiliated by the failure of his irony
and by the evocation of this figure from the dead,
a boy in the gasworks. While he had been full of
memories of their secret life together, full of tender-
ness and joy and desire, she had been comparing him
in her mind with another. A shameful consciousness
of his own person assailed him. He saw himself
as a ludicrous figure, acting as a pennyboy for his
aunts, a nervous well-meaning sentimentalist, orat-
ing to vulgarians and idealising his own clownish
lusts, the pitiable fatuous fellow he had caught
a glimpse of in the mirror. Instinctively he turned
his back more to the light lest she might see the
shame that burned upon his forehead.

He tried to keep up his tone of cold interrogation
but his voice when he spoke was humble and
indifferent.

' I suppose you were in love with this Michael
Furey, Gretta,' he said.

' I was great with him at that time,' she said.

Her voice was veiled and sad. Gabriel, feeling
now how vain it would be to try to lead her whither
he had purposed, caressed one of her hands and said,
also sadly :

' And what did he die of so yoimg, Gretta ? Con-
sumption, was it ? '
s

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' I think he died for me,' she answered.

A vague terror seized Gabriel at this answer as if,
at that hour when he had hoped to triumph, some
impalpable and vindictive being was coming against
him, gathering forces against him in its vague world.
But he shook himself free of it with an effort of reason
and continued to caress her hand. He did not
question her again for he felt that she would tell him
of herself. Her hand was warm and moist : it did
not respond to his touch but he continued to caress
it just as he had caressed her first letter to him that
spring morning.

' It was in the winter,' she said, ' about the
beginning of the winter when I was going to leave
my grandmother's and come up here to the convent.
And he was ill at the time in his lodgings in Galway
and wouldn't be let out and his people in Oughterard
were written to. He was in decline, they said, or
something like that. I never knew rightly.'

She paused for a moment and sighed.

' Poor fellow,' she said. ' He was very fond of
me and he was such a gentle boy. We used to go
out together, walking, you know, Gabriel, like the
way they do in the country. He was going to study
singing only for his health. He had a very good
voice, poor Michael Furey.'

' Well ; and then ? ' asked Gabriel.

'And then when it came to the time for me to
leave Galway and come up to the convent he was
much worse and I wouldn't be let see him so I wrote
him a letter saying I was going up to Dublin and

THE DEAD 275

would be back in the summer and hoping he would
be better then.'

She paused for a moment to get her voice under
control and then went on :

' Then the night before I left I was in my grand-
mother's house in Nuns' Island, packing up, and I
heard gravel thrown up against the window. The
window was so wet I couldn't see so I ran downstairs
as I was and slipped out the back into the garden and
there was the poor fellow at the end of the garden,
shivering.'

' And did you not tell him to go back ? ' asked
Gabriel.

' I implored of him to go home at once and told
him he would get his death in the rain. But he
said he did not want to live. I can see his eyes as
well as well ! He was standing at the end of the wall
where there was a tree.'

' And did he go home ? ' asked Gabriel.

' Yes, he went home. And when I was only a
week in the convent he died and he was buried in
Oughterard where his people came from. O, the
day I heard that, that he was dead ! '

She stopped, choking with sobs, and, overcome
by emotion, flung herself face downward on the bed,
sobbing in the quilt. Gabriel held her hand for
a moment longer, irresolutely, and then, shy of
intruding on her grief, let it fall gently and walked
quietly to the window.

She was fast asleep.

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Gabriel, leaning on his elbow, looked for a few
moments imresentfully on her tangled hair and half-
open mouth, listening to her deep-drawn breath.
So she had had that romance in her life : a man
had died for her sake. It hardly pained him now to
think how poor a part he, her husband, had played
in her life. He watched her while she slept as though
he and she had never lived together as man and wife.
His curious eyes rested long upon her face and on her
hair : and, as he thought of what she must have been
then, in that time of her first girlish beauty, a strange
friendly pity for her entered his soul. He did not
like to say even to himself that her face was no longer
beautiful but he knew that it was no longer the
face for which Michael Furey had braved death.

Perhaps she had not told him all the story. His
eyes moved to the chair over which she had thrown
some of her clothes. A petticoat string dangled to
the floor. One boot stood upright, its limp upper
fallen down : the fellow of it lay upon its side. He
wondered at his riot of emotions of an hour before.
From what had it proceeded ? From his aimt's
supper, from his own foolish speech, from the wine
and dancing, the merry-making when saying good-
night in the hall, the pleasure of the walk along the
river in the snow. Poor Aunt Julia ! She, too,
would soon be a shade with the shade of Patrick
Morkan and his horse. He had caught that haggard
look upon her face for a moment when she was
singing Arrayed for the Bridal. Soon, perhaps, he
would be sitting in that same drawing-room, dressed

THE DEAD 277

in black, his silk hat on his knees. The blinds would
be drawn down and Aunt Kate would be sitting
beside him, crying and blowing her nose and telling
him how Julia had died. He would cast about in his
mind for some words that might console her, and
would find only lame and useless ones. Yes, yes :
that would happen very soon.

The air of the room chilled his shoulders. He
stretched himself cautiously along under the sheets
and lay down beside his wife. One by one they were all
becoming shades. Better pass boldly into that other
world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade
and wither dismally with age. He thought of how
she who lay beside him had locked in her heart for
so many years that image of her lover's eyes when
he had told her that he did not wish to live.

Generous tears filled Gabriel's eyes. He had
never felt like that himself towards any woman
but he knew that such a feeling must be love. The
tears gathered more thickly in his eyes and in the
partial darkness he imagined he saw the form of a
young man standing under a dripping tree. Other
forms were near. His soul had approached that
region where dwell the vast hosts of the dead.
He was conscious of, but could not apprehend, their
wayward and flickering existence. His own identity
was fading out into a grey impalpable world : the
solid world itself which these dead had one time
reared and lived in was dissolving and dwindling.

A few light taps upon the pane made him turn
to the window. It had begun to snow again. He

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watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling
obliquely against the lamplight. The time had
come for him to set out on his journey westward.
Yes, the newspapers were right : snow was general
all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the
dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly
upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly
falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves.
It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely
churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay
buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses
and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on
the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he
heard the snow falling faintly through the universe
and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end,
upon all the living and the dead.